


Catch Me No Catch

by jellybeanforest



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Assumed Geflin, Child Abuse, Comedy, Farce, Gen, GotG Kinkmeme Prompt, Guardians in the Last Chapter, How They Hooked Up, Humor, M/M, Matchmaker Peter Quill, No-sided Kraguz, Papa Bear Yondu, Ravager Hygiene, Ravager-typical violence, Reluctant Babysitter Kraglin Obfonteri, Sex Shop Shenanigans, Slapstick, Torture by Makeover, Yondad, Yondu Lives, comedic misunderstandings, domestic abuse, kragdu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-11 06:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13518858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: Yondu assigns Kraglin semi-permanent babysitting duty to both his and Peter’s dismay. Kraglin is a strict, spiteful disciplinarian, but Peter has a plan to get him laid so he’ll finally mellow out. Unfortunately, it’s slim pickings on an all-male Ravager ship.Based on a couple old LJ GotG Kinkmeme Prompts and the lyrics to the song “Matchmaker” from Fiddler on the Roof.





	1. Make Me A Match

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s the deal. Kragdu is my OTP. They’re my boys, but the father-son dynamic between Yondu and Peter is my jam. It is rife with misunderstandings, miscommunications, and abuse, but ultimately also love. I enjoy beautifully-painful, complex fics exploring how their relationship developed and how it was ultimately resolved for the better (usually with a healthy amount of distance in Peter’s adulthood, assuming Yondu lives). 
> 
> This fic ain’t that. It’s not particularly deep. It’s 14-year-old Peter trying to get Kraglin laid for purely selfish reasons because Kraglin is a dick to him, but he might be less of a dick if he was getting (or giving) some dick. He is more than willing to throw Kraglin at the nearest Ravager and see what sticks. Essentially, Peter is going to get the man laid even if it kills Kraglin. And it just might.
> 
> It’s farce played straight. It’s hopefully funny. So, here we go.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night after night in the dark I’m alone so find me a match of my own.

_We’re makin’ a mistake_ , Kraglin thinks, peering into the intake room of the M-ship moments after they snatched that brat, Peter Quill, from an open field. The boy shivers in fear; eyes wet and face pink, as he positively screeches.

Exile had deprived Yondu of the only family he had known and made him realize there was a limit to Stakar’s love for his surrogate son, but Kraglin knew it was the knowledge of what happened to all those children that robbed Yondu of his peace of mind… that almost killed him. It kept his Captain up at night, darkened his mood and made him reckless. Kraglin knew this job was a terrible mistake the minute Yondu answered Ego’s next call and accepted the mission. This one right here… where they willingly and knowingly sentence a child to death… this may be the one that finally does his Captain in. Kraglin had tried to talk him out of it more so as a friend than first mate, but with little contacts and no other contracts on the horizon, what choice did they have?

“Obfonteri, you go in there an’ greet the boy. Calm ‘im down,” Yondu tells him, “Ya look Terran enough.”

Insulting… but practical; Kraglin shakes his head in the affirmative.

Yondu places a hand on his upper arm just before he disengages the biolock, “And I want ‘im undamaged. Ego ain’t payin’ fer no bruised goods.”

“Got it, Cap’n,” Kraglin says. Quill is tiny. How much trouble can he possibly be?

Kraglin steps into the room as the boy turns frightened eyes towards him, backing into the far corner and trying to make himself shrink ever smaller.

“Welcome to the Eclector, Kid. We’re goin’ ta take ya to meet yer Daddy,” Kraglin tries to sound chipper as he approaches the small quivering bundle, reciting the standard greeting they had used in the past. However, now knowing the boy’s ultimate fate, the cheerful phrase tastes of ash in his mouth.

When that fails to elicit any intelligent response from the doomed child, Kraglin tries again, “Hey Kid. Whassa matter? You deaf?”

He reaches out to the boy. Peter snaps at the outstretched hand, sinking baby teeth deep into the meat of Kraglin’s palm. As he latches on, Peter hopes that his wiggly tooth, the left lateral incisor ready to fall out, is up to the task of defending him from what is either the tooth fairy come too soon (his first crazy theory upon initial abduction) or aliens about to probe him.

Kraglin yelps as he shakes the kid off. When Peter looks ready to launch himself for a second taste, Kraglin slaps the feral child hard to the ground. Peter spits out his tooth and gazes wide at it loose on the bare metal of the floor as he screams through a blood-filled mouth.

Yondu quickly enters the room and socks his first mate. He had said _undamaged_ , which specifically meant that Kraglin was not to remove pieces off the brat.

Peter stares at his new abductor. This still doesn’t resolve the tooth fairy vs. alien debate. He’s blue, much more deserving of the moniker “Blue Fairy” of Pinocchio fame, but he’s significantly uglier than expected. If he is who Peter thinks he might be, then 1) Disney _lied_ to him, and 2) the tooth fairy is way more aggressively passionate about tooth collection than his mother had led him to believe. At least he’ll release him now that the desired incisor is out of Peter’s mouth and ripe for harvest, but Peter better be getting more than a dime for this tooth. He best be getting the _whole_ dollar.

“He attacked me, sir!” Kraglin protests as he touches his eye against the burgeoning bruise.

“Ya tellin’ me ya can’t handle a brat without knockin’ the tar out’a ‘im?” Yondu says as he reaches out towards Peter instead of the tooth. Peter decides then and there that not only is this not the tooth fairy, but this alien is about to probe him. He’s not letting that happen.

He bites Yondu’s finger, intending to sever it. Yondu yelps, reflexively smacking the child on the back of the head. Peter lets go and wails ever louder.

“Ya see what I mean?” Kraglin shouts back at Yondu, cradling his bleeding hand. “The kid’s a noisy hungry savage! Terrans prob’ly eat people live!”

Yondu scowls at the other man then turns to the child. He grabs Peter by his jaw, avoiding his snapping teeth, and whips his head side to side. “Fuck! Kid don’t have a translator. He can’t understand a word we’re sayin’. Scared shitless.”

“Aw fuck!” Kraglin exclaims. “Can’t we just sedate him and put ‘im in the cargo hold of the Eclector ‘til we deliver the li’l bastard?”

“He’s kind’a a cute li’l bugger, ain’t he?” Yondu says, mostly to himself.

Kraglin regards the child, all pinkish skin gone splotchy-red from the exertion of crying, messy ginger-brown hair, and bright red leaking from his mouth and nose.

He doesn’t see the appeal.

“I guess he comes in yer favorite color.” Kraglin concedes. He feels a bit sorry for the brat, but it’s only been five minutes, and he’s already a destructive pain in the ass. Kraglin is moderately relieved his stay is temporary.

Just two weeks in his company and Kraglin will never have to see Peter Quill again.

 

* * *

 

**Six Years Later**

“Vorker, Oblo, yer with me. Kraglin, yer on look out duty with Quill. Don’t let ‘im fuck up,” Yondu orders while the five of them gather behind the museum. He waves the other two Ravagers towards the base of the wall, intending to scale it up to the rooftop entrance to retrieve the famed Berilys tiara.

“Aw really? Can’t I go with you, Yondu? I’ve been working on my lockpicking, and I think I can do a real job,” Peter argues. He’s tired of being left out of the main action.

“Again, Cap’n?” Kraglin says, exasperated. “Why don’t we just leave ‘im on the Eclector if we can’t trust ‘im to stand quietly for ten minutes.”

“Hey! I’m a Ravager same as you,” Peter whispers back furiously.

“Half a Ravager by the look of it,” Kraglin pulls up to his full height and lightly shoves the kid’s shoulder. It’s not exactly true anymore. Quill’s been growing like a weed, having surpassed Yondu in height recently and almost standing level with Kraglin himself.

Captain has had enough. “Quill, no back talk, and Obfonteri, I expect it from the boy, but ya know better’n to question my orders.”

“Yes, sir,” Kraglin says, expression carefully neutral.

Peter rolls his eyes: “ _All right_.”

Yondu frowns at the boy’s subtle insubordination but doesn’t comment. Quill is prone to snark and disobedience, but lately it’s become much more frequent, edging on outright problematic for the stability of the Eclector’s crew. Yondu turns away and activates his electric climbing gloves.

“I can’t believe I’m stuck down here with you,” Peter complains after two minutes of blessed silence. Kraglin knew nothing golden could last.

“You? Stuck with me? I’m the one babysittin’ yer sorry ass,” Kraglin addresses the brat, “Before you came along, me an’ Cap’n used to pull jobs together all the time. Now, I’m always makin’ sure ya don’t fuck up.”

“I don’t need a babysitter!” Peter shouts petulantly.

“For once, we agree on somethin’. If yer goin’ ta git yerself dead, then that’s just natural selection at work,” Kraglin says flatly, hands on his hips.

Peter is about to sass back when he freezes, mouth open and staring just behind the other man’s shoulder. Either Peter saw something shiny and became momentarily distracted or there’s a guard leveling a blaster at Kraglin’s back.

“Freeze!”

 _Fuck_.

Peter holds up his hands as Kraglin slowly turns to face the two guards. If he had a real Ravager at his side, Kraglin and his hopefully-competent unspecified comrade could take them out together. As it stands… he can’t risk Pete getting caught in the crossfire. The boy is stupid enough to attract blaster fire like a magnet and get them both dead: Pete at the scene and Kraglin later when Yondu discovers the boy’s untimely death during his watch.

“My brother and I were just taking a shortcut home, Mister,” Quill says, attempting his wide-eyed innocent act. It is not successful.

“That’s a Ravager Flame on your jacket!” Guard #1 shouts, blaster still raised level to Quill’s chest. Peter’s face falls; it was worth a shot.

Being a space pirate is his childhood dream come true, but perhaps wearing a galaxy-renowned outlaw uniform is not the smartest move for the Ravagers. Peter makes a mental note to point it out to Yondu later, granted if they survive and if Yondu doesn’t abandon them on this stars-damned planet for getting caught.

“You, hands up!” Guard #2 shouts, aiming the blaster at Kraglin.

Kraglin obeys but turns his head towards Peter.

“Way to fuck this up, Quill!” He shouts over his shoulder.

“What! You aren’t pinning this solely on me!” Peter protests.

“Yer the one screamin’ his head off ‘bout how ya don’t need no babysitter. If ya stayed quiet, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” Kraglin reasons, voice raised.

“I’m tired of being treated like a child!” Peter pushes against Kraglin’s chest, forgetting the guards in front of them. Kraglin pushes Peter back in retaliation.

“Hey, hands up!” Guard #1 orders as he advances towards the tussling duo. Guard #2 calls in to report a potential robbery-in-progress.

Kraglin shoves Peter to the ground, out of the line of blaster fire.

“Yeah, well, if ya don’t want–“ Kraglin throws a hidden knife from his sleeve, hitting Guard #1 square in the forehead. His eyes roll back, and he drops to the ground. Guard #2 stops mid-report and wastes precious seconds to re-aim his blaster, but Kraglin dodges and throws another knife, hitting him in the blaster-hand, disarming him. He runs up close, slicing the guard from belly to sternum.

“–to be treated like a child, you should stop actin’ like one,” Kraglin finishes. He retrieves his knife from Guard #2’s busted hand and walks back towards Peter, stopping to pull his knife from its seat in Guard #1’s head. Peter looks a bit queasy, which Kraglin chalks up as yet another reason to be annoyed with the brat. No Ravager worth his salt flinches at a little gore.

Sirens go off within the museum.

 _Fuck_.

 

* * *

 

“So, lemme git this straight,” Yondu begins after interrogating the two. “You,” pointing at Quill, “couldn’t keep yer damn mouth shut, alerting the guards to yer position.” Quill looks sufficiently browbeaten while Kraglin looks smug.

“An’ you,” Yondu points at Kraglin, “were antagonizin’ the boy, gettin’ ‘im all worked up, causin’ him to go squawkin’. From where I stand, you assholes are both at fault.” Kraglin wants to protest how that assessment is unfair, but one look at Yondu, and he knows it will only get him in deeper trouble. He employs his stellar ability to keep quiet. That shows maturity and should differentiate him from the stupid boy next to him in Captain’s estimation.

Yondu crosses his arms and pinches the bridge of his nose between his closed eyes, exhaling loudly. Quill is a childish idiot, but Kraglin unexpectedly shares some of his same traits, apparently.

“All right. Punishment time. Obfonteri, yer on indefinite babysittin’ duty ‘til further notice, both on an’ off the Eclector. Quill, ya have ta do everythin’ Obfonteri says,” Yondu orders.

Peter and Kraglin both audibly groan then look at each other with irritation.

“Yer goin’ ta get along or torment each other. I don’t give a fuck which. Just stay out’a trouble.”

 

* * *

 

Their punishment starts early the next day.

“Scrub duty, Quill,” Kraglin says, handing a scrub brush and bucket to the boy from a janitorial side closet. “I want’a see this corridor shine.”

Pete takes a long look down Deck 4G Corridor 9 as it stretches in the distance before turning a sharp corner. “That’ll take hours!”

 _Good. That’ll keep ya busy while I do important work._ “Best get started now.”

Eight delightful Quill-less hours later, Kraglin exits the Bridge to find his charge, achy and tired, dripping with sweat and bucket water.

“Okay, I finished. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to get it spotless,” Peter says. Inspecting his work, Kraglin has to admit the kid did an excellent job.

Just then, Scrote passes behind them and hacks a loogie, spitting it at the edge where wall meets floor, before moving on his way. They both stare at the glob of mucus-y spit.

“Looks like ya missed a spot,” Kraglin observes. Peter looks mutinous, throwing the scrub brush into the dirty black water of the bucket.

“Yer goin’ ta need that scrub brush if yer goin’ ta finish up,” Kraglin continues helpfully, barely managing to contain his smirk. The asshole is enjoying this. Peter screams in frustration and launches himself at his tormentor. Kraglin wrestles him to the floor, pinning the boy face down with his arm looped around his neck. It takes longer than usual, which means Peter is finally absorbing all those lessons on hand-to-hand combat Captain has been beating into him. When Quill fills out and has a bit more weight to throw around, he’ll be a formidable opponent, but for now… Kraglin is going to lord his superior physical prowess over him. He releases him and stands, looking down at the exhausted flattened youth.

“Time fer evening mess. You can join the rest o’ us when ya finish,” His tone is positively upbeat.

With that, Kraglin leaves the boy prone on the floor to plot his revenge.

The next morning, Kraglin hands Quill yet another scrub brush and bucket as they stand on Deck 4F Corridor 9, a parallel hall just below the one he cleaned the previous day.

“Scrub duty, Quill. You know the drill,” Kraglin orders, “And be sure to put away yer cleanin’ supplies when yer done.”

At the end of his shift, Kraglin finds that Quill’s limbs are practically boneless by the way they droop, but the corridor looks clean enough. It’s not as immaculate as the one yesterday had been, but at least Quill looks compliant, the fight drained out of him. The scrub brush and bucket are nowhere to be seen. It seems the boy managed to follow all of his orders somewhat competently but more importantly, without complaint. As a reward, Kraglin decides not to point out that there’s still a fair amount of grimy dust at the edges where water had spilled and not been wiped away. He supposes the kid has earned a little slack.

He comes to regret that initial assessment.

Later that night, Kraglin slides open the door of his quarters and crosses the threshold, tripping the thin wire strung low across the opening and dumping cold smelly scrub water over his head. Poured from top down, it sloshes in his jumpsuit, soaking through the undergarments close to his skin and uncomfortably sticking the leathers there.

From down the hall, he can hear the faint melody of _Cherry Bomb_ and Terran snickering.

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

“Quill!” Kraglin roars as he tears out after the boy for a disgustingly-wet beat down.

Kraglin knows he can’t kill Pete. Even if he made it look like an accident, Yondu would blame him, skinning him alive to make a rather-unattractive Kraglin-skin rug in his quarters. He can’t let that happen for many reasons, not least of which is that his furry hide would clash horribly with Yondu’s décor.

After a shower and a change of clothing, Kraglin lays down on his pillow only to feel a blocky item through its downy softness. He reaches his hand underneath to pull out the grimy scrub brush. Kraglin stares irate at the brush that dare defile his precious fluffy, one of the few items of comfort on this stars-dammed ship.

This.

This is war.

From then on, Kraglin and Peter fight battles of petty grievances. Kraglin giving him ever more demeaning and repetitive assignments and Peter retaliating through practical jokes that Kraglin learns to watch out for and sidestep more often over time.

When one prank ends with the two of them stuffed nose-to-nose in a small storage closet in the bowels of the Eclector after incurring Taserface’s wrath (when Peter accidentally laced his shampoo with hair removal cream instead of Kraglin’s), it forces both of them to re-evaluate their life choices.

“I… I think this might have gotten a little out of hand,” Peter says into the space next to Kraglin’s ear, chin tucked on the other man’s shoulder in the cramped closet.

“Ya think?” Kraglin responds. Peter can’t see his face, but he hears acid in his voice.

“Truce?” Peter offers.

“Ya mean you’ll stop doin’ what yer doin’, includin’ tryin’ to permanently scar me with yer burnin’ cream, and I’ll stop makin’ ya scrub the galleyway before AND after we have particularly muddy missions?”

“… Sure,” Peter confirms. He feels a little guilty about that one. He hadn’t meant for the solution to be quite so caustic, but he didn’t know how much hair removal cream to add to get the right effect.

“Deal.”

Kraglin grabs Peter’s hand near his hip and gives it a shake.

 

* * *

 

They had been getting along so well when Peter makes a slight miscalculation. Really, it had been an honest mistake. He figured since he is old enough to kill and die for the Ravagers, surely he is old enough for other, more adult activities.

Yondu disagreed.

“Obfonteri! Escort Quill back to the Eclector an’ make sure he stays there,” Captain shouts as he grabs the errant child by the front of his jacket and marches him to the back of the brothel where Kraglin reclines, drink in hand and prostitute sitting cowgirl, grinding up against his front.

“But Cap’n…” Kraglin indicates the prostitute perched on his lap with the tilt of his head.

“You. Off,” Yondu says to the prostitute who quickly obeys. “Orders are orders,” he reminds Kraglin.

Kraglin puts down his drink and stands, readjusting his jumpsuit over his quickly-flagging erection. Then he clutches Peter’s arm to lead him out. Peter winces at the crushing pressure. 

“Of all the stars-damned times to act up, Quill, ya had’a pick tonight?” He grumbles through clenched teeth.

Peter hurries along to keep up with Kraglin’s punishing pace, but he’s barely paying attention as he hatches a plan involving his reluctant babysitter. For in that moment back at the brothel, Peter had seen his shot to improve his lot in life. Kraglin’s choice of prostitute had been older but pretty and scantily-clad with a bulge that bordered on obscene.

In short, Kraglin had been chatting up a man.

Peter could work with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original LJ Kinkmeme Prompt in full: Basically, Kraglin keeps getting ‘watch Peter’ duty seeing as he won’t eat/molest/kill the kid. In order to distract Kraglin so he can have fun, Peter decides to get him a boyfriend: Yondu to be more precise.


	2. Handsome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have I made a match for you! He’s handsome; he’s young! All right, he’s 62. But he’s a nice man, a good catch, true? True.

Fortunately for Peter, the Eclector is full of men.

Unfortunately for Peter, Kraglin is not blind.

Peter ponders this conundrum while scanning the crew during morning mess hall the following day in an attempt to find suitable candidates for his ornery babysitter’s affections. Maybe, just maybe, if Kraglin was getting laid consistently, he’d remove that giant stick from his ass and be a little easier on Peter. Not that this was all for his own selfish gain, Peter assures himself. That asshole deserves to be happy, and if he happened to be a little grateful towards Peter for setting him up… Well, Peter’s not going to stop Kraglin from feeling indebted to him.

Surely one of the eligible bachelors sitting before him will be amenable to the advances of the slightly-goofy, bobble-headed first mate. Peter observes Half-Nut shake dandruff out of his greasy half-head of hair while Taserface openly picks his nose and wipes it on the thighs of his leathers before tucking into his morning bread. Gef moans, his rheumy eyes crusty behind coke-bottle goggles, still half-dead from the night before. He shovels Cook’s hangover cure so fast down his gullet that he starts choking halfway through. He’s saved by Retch, who hacks a loogie before wetly re-swallowing it then uses the hand he coughed into to pound Gef on the back until the other man regurgitates the blockage and continues eating, chewing with his mouth wide open.

Okay, they’re all disgusting animals with atrocious manners and even worse grooming, but it’s not like Kraglin is much better, Peter thinks while pulling a face at the crew’s antics. Yeah, they’re always like this, but it’s so much worse the closer he looks at it.

Horuz stomps up to the table and plops himself heavily into a seat at the end. He doesn’t say much, but he manages to forgo clipping his yellowed fungus-infected toenails (Scrote) and screwing his pinky into his ear to dislodge waxy buildup (Narblik) at the table. He even spoons gruel with minimal spillage and chews with his mouth closed, minimizing the amount of breakfast stuck to his fuzzy beard by the end of his meal.

Horuz is not as young, fit, or attractive as the prostitute Kraglin had solicited the night before, but he’s practically a prince amongst swine. That is good enough for Peter to consider Horuz good enough for Kraglin. After all–

Peter eyes Kraglin picking his teeth with the tip of one of his short knives Pete is sure he’s never properly washed after disemboweling the last client that tried to cheat him.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

 

* * *

 

There’s one fatal flaw to his “Get Kraglin Laid” master plan: Peter has no idea how Ravager romance works. He doubts they spend weeks fluttering their lashes at each other before one finally asks the other to “go steady” and they exchange promise rings marking the momentous occasion, like civilized people. More likely, one man simply knocks out his potential paramour and drags him by the hair into the nearest storage closet where he makes sweet, unspeakably-horrible love to the unconscious body. That would explain why nobody ever did a thorough job of cleaning the Eclector before Peter: No one wants to spend that much time around conveniently-located janitorial closets. They are all too afraid of commitment.

Or perhaps Ravagers are incapable of love, and it’s just never come up before.

There is one smelly space pirate he could ask who might give him a straight answer…

“Hey Yondu, can I ask you a question?” Peter queries while Captain reviews star charts prepared by his navigators on a holo-pad.

“You just did, boy,” Yondu comments, not looking up from his work.

“You know what I mean… I was wondering, if you like-like someone, how do you show interest?” Peter asks as innocently as possible. At Yondu’s quirked eyebrow and downturned mouth, he adds, “I’m asking for a friend.”

_A friend? Right_ … “Some girl on Lukat catch yer eye, Quill? Yer never goin’ ta see her again, so I suggest ya just move on to the next one,” Yondu says, returning to the maps. He should have Tullk double-check the calculations to make sure they cut the most fuel-efficient route through the star ways.

It’s not what he’s asking, but Peter catalogues that bit of advice for later.

“Okay… How about the next time I see a girl I like?” He insists.

“Well, normally, I’d say buy her a drink, somethin’ sweet and fruity. Women tend ta like that shit. But yer way too young fer that, so wait ‘til yer old enough to shave, grow a mustache, then try again.”

“Mustache?” Peter asks. Kraglin already has a semi-permanent layer of scruffy hair that a less-discerning person may call a mustache, so he’s already halfway there…

“It’ll cover yer baby face,” the older man clarifies. Quill doesn’t have the scars to pull off the dangerous-yet-ruggedly-handsome space pirate look his mentor sports, and he never will if Yondu has any say in it, but the kid should be able to grow half-way decent facial hair when he comes of age. His jackass of a father had a full beard last Yondu saw, and it wasn’t even patchy, not that he’s jealous of Ego’s luxurious chin fur.

“Anyway, when she still rejects ya, then ya go to the nearest whorehouse and pay a hooker fer a tumble. Wear protection,” Yondu says, returning to his holopad.

“Is that what you do?”

Yondu gives him a severe look. He doesn’t have to pay for it, but he chooses to. There’s a difference.

“I pay fer ‘em to leave. Non-hookers are too much of a hassle. They always lookin’ ta git yer comm signature or yer name, the needy bastards. Before ya know it, some lay ya picked up three months ago is back an’ carvin’ their name in yer skin, doin’ their damnedest to make sure ya don’t forget ‘em… like they own ya.”

Peter gets the sense that his mentor is not talking hypotheticals.

Yondu continues, undeterred: “Best you learn: No such thing as a free fuck, so ya might as well pay up front. S’cheaper. We’re Ravagers, Quill. We ain’t got no time fer that shit.”

With that, Yondu has hit his monthly quota for quality parenting advice, so he shoos Quill away with a wave of his hand.

 

* * *

 

At the next port, Peter joins Yondu and Kraglin on an excursion through the bustling markets, looking for batteries for his Walkman. The various “shops” are differentiated by yellow boxed lines painted on the crumbling asphalt along the edges of the main thoroughfare. On one end are relatively well-off merchants with durable counters and tarps imitating ceilings and walls to shade their customers and provide a more conventional indoor experience. Moving east down the street, these covered shops give way to others laying their wares bare on blankets and folding tables within their humble squares. The shopkeepers of these more-open bazaars carry a parasol in one hand to protect themselves from the beating rays of their planet’s binary suns and a switch in the other to swat sticky fingers away from their merchandise. Spotting a promising vendor, Peter runs ahead to peruse a pile of Terran space garbage.

“Two o’clock,” Kraglin whispers, lightly nudging Yondu.

Yondu looks in the indicated direction just ahead and to the right at a muscular Korbinite haggling for a broken comm, probably requiring its spare parts to fix his own. His light orange skin stretches across defined biceps, and his bald head gleams in the light of the setting suns. Yondu admits the man has a superb body, but with his bulkiness and lack of any nasal structure, he’s not really his type. These days, Yondu’s tastes lean a bit more towards the tall and trim, while Kraglin seems to prefer them a little thicker and brightly-colored. Still, it’s an excellent view. Kraglin has a good eye. Yondu hums in appreciation.

Whenever the pair frequents some exotic locale milling about a crowd of many intersecting worlds, they check out men together, a sort of window-shopping for the hottest men in the galaxy. Kraglin doesn’t know when it became a regular activity, but it originated back when they both still ran with Stakar’s crew. That first brothel, Kraglin had been a bundle of nerves, wondering what the rest of the crew would think, when he approached the male escort he desired to hire, only to find that Yondu had done the same. Standing on either side of the same prostitute, they had looked at each other for a long moment before Yondu cracked a rakish grin and asked if he wanted to _share_. Since then, their taste in men had diverged, but their friendship never did.

“Eleven o’clock,” Yondu mumbles back, indicating a strapping Shi’ar man, his tall wiry frame decked out in polished armor plates and a cape embroidered with red feathers.

_It figures_ , Kraglin thinks. Yondu always was a sucker for the cute and shiny.

“Hey, Yondu, it looks like they have batteries that might work with my Walkman. I’m almost out!” Peter calls out, interrupting their little game. Kraglin rolls his eyes. How many times does he have to tell the brat that he shouldn’t let traders know how badly he wants what they got? It makes negotiating a good deal that much more difficult.

Peering at Quill, Kraglin contemplates whether Yondu’s habit of collecting small, cute things may someday be the death of them all.

 

* * *

 

Later, Peter accompanies them to the nearest pub, where they are joined by a number of other Ravagers. It’s a rough-and-tumble sort of dive with mismatching chairs and glasses of various sizes, replaced piecemeal over the years as they are broken by the bar’s rather-volatile clientele. The moonshine they serve is liable to blacken one’s livers, but it’s cheap enough. Given time, they’ll all develop cirrhosis, but it’s not like any of them have that long to live anyway.

Kraglin parks the boy at the bar and orders him to _Sit here and don’t cause no trouble_ while Yondu threatens the bartender to ensure he doesn’t serve the underage Terran anything stronger than a fizz. With that, the crew set about drinking through the stronger stocks of alcohol.

“No more fer you, Obfh- Obfh- Kraglin,” Yondu slurs as he swipes Kraglin’s seventh drink.

“Wha’ the fuck, Cap’n?” Kraglin asks, but he doesn’t dare reach for it back.

“Yer the designated babysitter. Five drink limit,” Yondu orders, grinning wide with inebriation. Kraglin frowns into his sixth empty glass, but he wisely doesn’t call attention to Yondu’s miscalculation.

“Tough break,” Gef laughs from his other side before taking a long pull on his own personal bottle of booze. If Kraglin had known Yondu was going to restrict his intake, he would have done the same as Gef. One bottle counts as one drink, right?

“Tha’s a good man,” Yondu says, heartily patting his first mate on the back. He downs Kraglin’s stolen drink, stacking it precariously on top of his other emptied tumblers. The tower leans heavily to one side, threatening to tip. Kraglin takes a long look at Yondu’s tilting hoard then deliberately knocks his knee against the bottom of the table, causing it to spill to the ground and shatter. Yondu gazes at the broken mess, shrugs, finishes his next drink, and slams it in the same spot, creating the fragile foundation of yet another stack of spent glasses.

The bartender doesn’t even look up at the sharp sound of crashing glassware, too busy pouring the next round. He doesn’t get paid nearly enough to care.

When Kraglin gets up to take a piss, he ambles towards Peter’s direction, swerving a bit to the left on his way to the bogs behind the bar to deliver a swat to the back of the boy’s head.

“Ow! What the hell was that for?” Peter hollers at his retreating back.

“Existin’,” Kraglin slurs as he stumbles through the swinging door.

_Stick to the plan_ , Peter reminds himself, even if the effort he’s expending on Kraglin’s behalf is more than the prick deserves. When Kraglin returns to his seat with no further violence towards his person, Peter seizes his chance. He leans forward, hovering over the sticky bar top.

“Hey, Mister!” Peter waves for the bartender’s attention, “Mister!”

“You want another bottle o’ fizz?” He asks, already stooping behind the bar to fetch the Terran-approved beverage.

“Naw… I was wondering if you could make a cocktail. Something fruity,” Peter requests brightly.

“I ain’t crossing your dad, kid,” the bartender says, placing the retrieved orange bottle on the counter in front of Peter. His job is shit, but he’s not feeling suicidal today.

“Who?” Peter looks confused for a second before realization dawns on him. “Oh, Yondu’s not my dad. Anyways, it’s not for me.”

The bartender places both hands on the bar, leans in, and gives the boy a skeptical look.

“You see that big guy over there? The stocky one with the frizzy beard,” Peter tilts his head in Horuz’s direction. “He helped me out today, fixed my blaster when it jammed, and I just want to buy him a drink to say thank you. He really likes fruit, and considering us spacers don’t get too much of it, I thought it would be a nice gesture to buy him a fruit-flavored drink,” he lies easily, face entirely too innocent to be trustworthy. His fingers lightly trace the cool condensation down the side of his nonalcoholic beverage.

“He don’t look like a cocktail kind of guy,” the bartender says, unconvinced. The man ordered their highest-proof swill, same as everyone else in his rowdy crew. Hell, when they all vomit later, he’d be surprised if it didn’t strip the paint right off any surface it splattered against.

“He’ll love it, I swear. You can even say it’s from me,” Peter tries to reassure him. “Look, he’s not going to do anything to me in your bar in front of the Captain, if property damage is what you’re worried about.”

The bartender looks dubious.

Plan B it is then.

“Besides, if you don’t, I’m going to steal Scrote’s drink and tell Yondu I got it from you.” Peter had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. He thought maybe he could convince the guy using his powers of persuasion and whatever lingering cuteness he had left over from his quickly-waning childhood, but no-o… so threats of physical violence and permanent maiming from his drunk mentor it was then.

_Blackmailed by a child_ , the bartender sighs, shoulders hunched. _This is a new low_.

“Okay, fine. What’s your name, kid?”

“Kraglin,” Peter says, smiling and sticking out his hand for a shake to seal the deal. Satisfied with his flawless, foolproof plan, he places his ever-present headphones over his ears and blasts _Escape_.

Ten minutes later, the bartender presents Horuz with a light pink cocktail poured into a delicately-thin martini glass. The bright red cherry bobs happily centered at the apex.

“This is from Kraglin. He asked me to make it special for you,” he says with dead eyes and a flat affect, like he’s reading off a poorly-written script, “Special drink for a special guy.”

The surrounding Ravagers become deadly silent before breaking out into emphatic guffaws. Vorker steadies himself against a wall. He’s on the verge of suffocation; he can barely breathe through his laughter.

Horuz doesn’t touch the drink. Instead, he stands and calmly stalks over to Kraglin’s table to stare at the other man. Peter excitedly observes the unfolding scene from his perch at the bar. It’s working! He can’t believe how easy it was to bring those two crazy lovebirds together, but then again, he’s Starlord, master of all trades, including matchmaking, apparently. He will never again doubt his amazing abilities in all endeavors.

“What?” Kraglin asks, shifting uncomfortably under Horuz’s rather intense gaze.

Horuz gives him a passionate right hook across his unsuspecting face, the force of which knocks him to the ground. Gef immediately stands and returns the volley, planting a meaty fist directly onto Horuz’s nose, kickstarting a full-on Ravager brawl.

As fists and knives fly, knocking over bottles and tables and severely testing the limits of the bar’s sturdy foundation, Peter dives behind the bar, where the hapless bartender crouches low.

“No property damage, kid?!” He yells at the boy.

“Um… sorry?” Peter has the gall to look sheepish.

“You know what? Fuck this; I quit!”

 

* * *

 

“Ya want’a tell me what the fuck you was thinkin’, Obfonteri?” Yondu asks Kraglin later in the officer’s break room, poking the burgeoning black-purple bruise forming across his orbital bone.

“Me? I didn’t do nothin’ ‘cept get punched!” Kraglin exclaims.

“Horuz says ya bought him some sissy drink. You was comin’ on to him. ‘Sexual harassment in the workplace’ is what they’re callin’ it,” Yondu says calmly, stare boring into the other man, searching for a whiff of untruth, but he only finds honest confusion.

“I knew we never should’a raided that NovaCorp HR ship. Full o’ all them stupid pamphlets about ‘trust falls’ and ‘hostile work environments,’” Kraglin comments grumpily, hissing when Yondu glances against a particularly painful patch. Yondu continues his light touch across Kraglin’s face, turning his chin left and right, tenderly examining the extent of facial damage.

“Still, ya can’t go down the chain o’ command usin’ yer position fer sexual favors,” Yondu digs into Kraglin’s bruise harder for emphasis. “Is bad for morale.”

“I didn’–“ Kraglin protests, flinching and leaning back away from Yondu’s harshly probing fingers.

“I ain’t stupid. Witnesses say bartender knew yer name. You pull that shit again, an’ I ain’t pullin’ the next man off’a ya,” Yondu says sternly. If Kraglin is going to overtly lie about his sudden slightly-embarrassing attraction to significantly-older, ugly bears, he should at least have the decency to _not_ insult Yondu’s intelligence.

Kraglin sighs. He’s never lied to Yondu, and he would appreciate a little trust, a little benefit of a doubt.

“And Kraglin…” Yondu affects a serious expression. “Horuz? Seriously?”

He breaks into a chuckle. Kraglin gives him a dry look.

“You that hard up, boy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Peter, you rascally scamp.


	3. Tall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I found him. Won’t you be a lucky bride! He’s handsome, he’s tall, that is from side to side. But he’s a nice man, a good catch, right? Right.

Peter’s first foray into matchmaking had yielded less-than-ideal results. It was a temporary setback, a minor snafu, but he’s a quick study. His mistake had been two-fold. First, he should have never listened to Yondu. Despite his claims, the man pays for sex. Clearly, he was the wrong person to ask for advice in these matters. Second, what was Peter thinking selecting a random Ravager for Kraglin when he should have paid attention to who might actually be attracted to him? Granted, right now, that was probably no one, but really, considering the competition, Kraglin isn’t that bad, appearance-wise. Peter just needed to make him more enticing, to spruce him up a bit in order to generate sexual interest in someone… anyone really.

In short, Kraglin is in dire need of a makeover.

Kraglin was of a different opinion.

“Stop it, Pete!” He had shouted, ducking to avoid Peter’s comb.

“Fuck off, Kid!” He had barked when Peter assaulted him with deodorant spray.

“Damn it, Quill! What’s yer problem?” He had bellowed, smacking Peter away when he woke to find the boy looming over him, a pair of nose-hair clippers in hand, carefully hovering and snipping under his sizeable schnauz.

_Really, Kraglin is an ungrateful, insufferable prick,_ Peter thinks as he carefully slices into Kraglin’s stash of sweet ration bars and embeds chalky vitamins for shinier hair and clearer skin into the dark chewy firm innards before vacuum sealing them up again. No appreciation at all for Peter’s hard work.

However, despite Peter’s best efforts, the progress on Kraglin’s extensive makeover advances at a snail’s pace, the creeping improvements to the man’s appearance and overall desirability stall and stagnate. He remains as smelly and grimy as ever. The problem, Peter decides, is Kraglin’s clothing, which has likely never known the sweet cleansing touch of soap. His pungent essence, stinking of yeasty cheese and sweat, permeates the very fabric of Kraglin’s jumpsuit and under-leathers, recoating his skin in sour fumes too soon after his infrequent showers.

The solution is simple: Peter needs to get Kraglin naked.

 

* * *

 

Kraglin cuts the water, shakes stray droplets off his hair and body, and reaches for a towel, wrapping it around his waist. He walks over to the shower cubby to retrieve his leathers, but he comes up empty, hands palming air and bare metal.

“Where the fuck…  Hey Tullk, have ya seen m’ leathers?” Kraglin asks the man getting dressed next to him.

“Don’t tell me you misplaced yer drawers?” Tullk replies, zipping up his standard-issue jumpsuit.

“I didn’t. They’re just… gone. Someone must’a took ‘em by mistake,” Kraglin ponders, running his fingers through his mohawk to straighten it out. He has to report to the Bridge soon. He can’t be late, not after last time when Quill managed to lock him in the bogs and refused to let him out unless he used that weird teeth brush contraption Quill had laid out with the minty paste that apparently was not meant to be ingested.

“I’ll find ‘em later. Lucky I’ve got ‘nother set in my quarters.” Kraglin straps on his boots. Walking barefoot in the Eclector’s halls often requires a visit to med bay and a complimentary Tetanus shot.

“Doubt anyone pinched ‘em, unless they mistook ‘em for a scarf. Yer a right skinny git,” Tullk says as he bends down to fasten his own boots.

_Someone has it out for me_ , Kraglin thinks later when he finds his spare leathers missing as well. Somebody swiping the wrong jumpsuit in the communal officer’s showers is one thing, but his second set was in his personal quarters. Standing in nothing but a towel and boots, he checks his wrist-comm and realizes he’s out of time. _Fuck_.

Kraglin barrels onto the Bridge, eight minutes after the start of his shift, almost tripping over the floppy cuffs at his legs.

Yondu glances up, ready to chew him out for being late. Again. He stops, mouth hanging open.

“Stars alive, Obfonteri! The fuck are ya doin’ on m’ Bridge wearin’ _that_?”

Kraglin is practically swimming in Gef’s spare jumpsuit. The collar gapes so much, it’s in danger of peeling off his torso altogether, and the outfit’s body sags horribly, making him look like a deflated Michelin Man (or a flaccid penis). He clutches the drooping leathers at the hips and tries to hold his shoulders broader to fill out and maintain clothing cover on his rail-thin frame.

Freshly showered in another man’s jumpsuit… they’re all thinking it, but it’s Peter who states the obvious, “Looks like someone got lucky!” He grins broadly at Kraglin’s flat stare.

“Up-top!” Peter extends his hand, palm facing towards Kraglin.

“What? I didn’–“ Kraglin sputters.

“Don’t be coy. It’s pretty clear what happened,” Peter waves the outstretched hand, still waiting for a high-five, “C’mon man, don’t leave me hanging.”

He’s worked hard for this moment, and it’s finally paid off. The least Kraglin could do is acknowledge the success of Peter’s covert mission to finally make him fuck-able.

Kraglin raises his palm; Peter’s heart swells with pride and accomplishment, but then Kraglin plants it directly on the boy’s face, pushing him back as he stalks forward. “Don’t be an idjit, Quill,” he says heatedly. “Someone stole all m’ clothes, and I had’a improvise.”

“Someone stole _all_ yer clothes?” Yondu clearly isn’t buying his story. Quill’s face flashes with something akin to guilt, but he manages to mask it before anyone notices.

“Yeah, and I didn’t have time ta go to the quartermaster fer replacements.”

Yondu doesn’t believe him. He forces Kraglin to work his entire shift wearing the extremely baggy outfit. After trying (and nearly failing) to keep it from falling off for an hour, Kraglin is fed up. He unzips the upper half of the jumpsuit, strips it off his torso, and ties the arms tightly around his waist, making makeshift parachute pants. He lacks an insulating layer of fat on his upper body, and the cool recycled air causes him to shiver and his unsightly hair to stand on end from the cold, making him look like an emaciated porcupine, but it’s more efficient than pulling up the voluminous fabric every five seconds.

Kraglin has never been dishonest with his Captain, and it doesn’t sit right with him that Yondu thinks him a liar, especially after the Horuz incident. So on the way back to their adjacent quarters, Kraglin insists he show Yondu proof of the theft. However, when he throws open his footlocker, inside are his two jumpsuits, neatly folded. Had he not been so surprised, he may have noticed they smell less rancid than usual, as if they had been freshly laundered.

“I swear these weren’t here before,” Kraglin stammers.

Yondu just gives him a long-suffering look. Then, he crosses his arms, bows his head, and pinches the bridge of his nose between closed eyes. He takes a deep breath.

“I don’t know if yer goin’ through a… phase or somethin’, but ya need’a figure yer shit out, Obfonteri.” Whatever is going on with Kraglin has yet to affect the quality of his work, but it has the potential to cause issues amongst the men, especially if Kraglin is determined to bone his way through the lower ranks. At least whatever had occurred this time seemed consensual enough as he had yet to receive a complaint from Gef.

That being said… first Horuz and now Gef? Either Yondu had severely overestimated Kraglin’s taste in men or there’s something very wrong with his first mate. Perhaps he should order Kraglin to see Doc for an eye exam or march him to the nearest veterinary hospital for a brain scan next time they go planetside.

With one last parting look at his bewildered first mate, Yondu leaves. Kraglin sighs and grabs one of the jumpsuits to change.

This day can’t get any worse.

 

* * *

 

“Word is ya fucked my man, Obfonteri,” Retch spits out later during evening mess, leaning over into Kraglin’s face from across the table, eyes wild and teeth chomping in righteous fury.

“I didn’t fuck nobody. It was a misunderstandin’.” Kraglin doesn’t intimidate easily, but Retch has some screws loose, making him violent in unpredictable ways. On more than one occasion, Gef’s goggles had the dual purpose of aiding his failing eyesight as well as hiding any black eyes gifted by his smaller partner. Still, Kraglin doesn’t back down; he never cowers.

Peter looks between the two men, eyes wide with something akin to panic. He didn’t even know that Gef and Retch were together. He figured they hated each other, what with all the purple-mottled marks and abrasions Retch was always leaving on the other man–

_Oh_.

Peter vows to never get involved with another Ravager.

“A misunderstandin’?” Retch repeats low and calm, almost sedate. He sits down and smiles, or rather shows off all his rotting teeth, “Glad we could clear that up. Good talk.”

“…Right,” Kraglin says, but he’s still tense, “You can ask Gef if’n ya don’t believe me.”

“Oh I did, an’ he denied it, but thought I’d ask you. But since ya have the same story…” Retch reclines back in his chair and starts to laugh, “Well, ya know, for a moment there, I thought I had’a… but then is all a misunderstandin’, just a funny li’l thing that happened as these things tend t’ do.”

The Ravagers on either side of him nervously chuckle, scooching a couple inches away.

“Oh, one more thing, Kraglin…” Retch says brightly, tilting forward again. His eyes narrow to slits as he takes his steak knife and leaps forward to slash against Kraglin’s face, the blade finding shallow purchase just to the side of his left eye. Kraglin pushes against Peter to fling the boy to the floor away from danger as he glances away from the blade’s arc to avoid the main thrust of Retch’s knife.

Kraglin abruptly stands, chair clattering to the ground. Blood from the cut pours into his eye and down the side of his face, staining his collar dark blue. Retch launches himself up on top of the table and over, going after Kraglin, who draws his hidden knife from his sleeve. He parries Retch’s second stab and punches him in the face to create distance. Reeling, Retch jabs again, but he’s too disoriented to connect. Kraglin grabs Retch’s knife-hand with his empty left and retaliates with his right, swinging his knife against Retch’s gullet, cutting a crude path into the soft flesh. Retch stops abruptly, holding his throat against the spurt of bright blue blood, applying potentially life-saving pressure.

“Get ‘im to med bay!” Yondu orders a couple of nearby Ravagers as he stomps on to the scene, “Maybe Doc can stitch the crazy fucker up before he bleeds out.”

He pulls Quill off the floor by his upper arm, giving him a quick once-over to check for any injuries. If Retch damaged the boy, Doc is going to be mighty pissed when he manages to save Retch only for Yondu to undo all his hard work with a sharp whistle. Lucky for him, the boy appears shaken but unscathed.

“Obfonteri. You come with me.”

 

* * *

 

Doc has his hands full stabilizing Retch, leaving Yondu to stitch up Kraglin’s non-life-threatening gash. Yondu had thought it would be the perfect opportunity to teach Quill how to close a wound, but the boy looked pasty white as he shook his head in refusal, and Kraglin balked at the prospect of shaky hands near his eye. Instead, he sent Quill to retrieve some antibiotics. No telling what infectious contagions were on that knife.

“Is yer own fault. What’d I tell ya ‘bout propositionin’ the men?” Yondu scowls, heating up the large curved needle to sterilize it.

“I’m tellin’ ya I didn’t. I just borrowed Gef’s jumpsuit,” Kraglin calls out from the washbasin as he carefully rinses the cut near his eye and applies pressure with a clean cloth.

“’Cause ya couldn’t find either of yer jumpsuits,” Yondu says, concentrating on threading the needle.

“Right,” Kraglin confirms as he sits down in front of his Captain, presenting his left side.

“The ones that were missing,” Yondu clarifies.

“Yes, sir.”

“The ones we found in yer footlocker,” Yondu says flatly as he digs in the first stitch.

Kraglin winces, more from the accusation lacing Yondu’s tone than from the sting of the needle.

“They weren’t there before,” he protests weakly.

Yondu just grunts as he carefully stitches cleaved flesh closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw the black-and-white promo photos of Retch with the scar across his neck, and I couldn’t resist.


	4. Temper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You heard he has a temper. He’ll beat you every night, But only when he’s sober, So you’ll be alright.

It’s going to scar.

The uneven stitching pulls at the seams of the deep cut, accentuating the angry puffy flesh just along the side of Kraglin’s left eye from brow to cheekbone. Peter obeys Kraglin’s orders without complaint, cowed into quiet submissiveness by his own shame. He can barely look at Kraglin’s face without concentrating on that guilty gash. He might as well have held the knife to the man’s face and carved it himself.

There had to be a way to make it up to Kraglin.

An intelligent person might conclude that Peter should just stop and count his lucky stars no one died from his hare-brained schemes, that he should keep his head down and pay back Kraglin by making his job easier, by being a model ward and following directions the first time.

Peter Quill is not an intelligent person.

He’ll make it up to Kraglin, all right. He’ll make it up by not throwing him at the nearest available, interested Ravager, by finding his perfect match. After all he’s been through, Kraglin deserves the best, his better half, the one who will make his pitifully-empty life worth living, who will make his soul absolutely sing with love and fluffy tender feelings.

By the stars, Peter is going soulmate hunting.

 

* * *

 

Peter reasons he can’t find the missing piece if he doesn’t know what the rest of the puzzle looks like. Ergo, to find Kraglin’s complement, Peter must first learn all he can about the man himself: his likes and dislikes, his social interactions, his habits. Peter observes Kraglin, approaching his soul-search like a ninja plans an assassination.

After a week of research during which time Kraglin manages to steal a satchel of gems, “borrow” a civilian M-ship, drink an ungodly amount of rotgut, knife at least ten people, and traumatize one Terran, Peter mentally compiles his notes:

 

Kraglin’s Likes: Food, Knives, Booze, Terrorizing Peter

Kraglin’s Dislikes: Hygiene, Proper Grammar, Puppies (unconfirmed), Children (probably), Peter (most definitely)

Kraglin’s Social Interactions: Ravagers (coworkers), Prostitutes (transactional), Peter (victim of his wrath)

Kraglin’s Habits: Thievery, Murder, Mayhem, Drinking, Being a Buzzkill, Assholery to the nth Degree (especially to Terrans like Peter)

 

In short, it’s hopeless. To have a soulmate, one must first have a soul, which Kraglin evidently lacks. The man is doomed to a lonely sociopathic existence punctuated by black-out nights and one-night stands. He doesn’t give a shit about anyone or anything. Peter might as well throw in the towel. Kraglin is a lost cause. He rests his head in his hands, defeated.

“You filter that list o’ potentials, Obfonteri?” Yondu asks Kraglin. Peter looks up; his scrutiny of all-things-Kraglin is automatic now.

“Here ya go, sir,” Kraglin answers. He shifts the two mugs he’s carrying into one hand and grabs the holopad under his arm, handing Yondu the list of possible jobs for a crew of their size and skill-set.

Yondu scrolls through the list. “And did ya–”

“I ordered ‘em by deadline and location. Less back an’ forth to save fuel,” Kraglin answers.

Yondu grunts his approval.

“Coffee?” Kraglin offers Yondu one of the mugs. When Yondu takes it, his fingers brush against Kraglin’s. Neither man seems to notice the brief contact, much less shrink from it.

“Two creams, no sugar?”

“Just the way ya like it, sir,” Kraglin answers, taking a sip from his own mug while glancing at Captain over the lip.

“Good man.”

Kraglin smiles at Yondu as the two continue to discuss other matters. They stand close together in a way that suggests trust and familiarity.

Unnoticed, Peter perks up from his slouch of despair.

Holy shit! Kraglin is actually smiling, not smirking or that wild grin that foreshadows acts of petty terrorism (for Peter) or bloody pandemonium (for everyone else). It’s a genuine smile, wide and happy without a hint of sneer, and it’s directed at _Yondu_ of all people. Perhaps even more surprising, Yondu is returning the same expression.

 _Huh. Maybe there is chance_ , Peter thinks. He never thought he would say this, but–

Hope is Yondu Blue.

 

* * *

 

Peter had never considered Yondu’s sexuality, much less his sex life, in depth. He assumes it’s primarily populated by people Yondu has to pay to touch his ugly blue hide. In fact, thinking about the subject for any extended period of time makes Peter uneasy for reasons he’d rather not contemplate. It’s like seeing a teacher outside school or realizing your parents had sex at some point. It just feels wrong, which is probably why he’s never noticed the friendly, almost-flirty way Yondu and Kraglin interact. It’s obvious now that Yondu should have been his target all along.

Hell, they themselves probably haven’t realized their obvious chemistry yet. Peter just needs to give them a little push in the right direction… to plant the seeds of their mutually-satisfying future relationship in the admittedly-barren soil of their hearts.

“Don’t you think Kraglin is kind of cute?” Peter asks Yondu, falling into step beside his mentor on the way to the Bridge before next shift.

“…What?” Yondu asks, stopping his forward momentum to stare at the boy.

Peter has his full attention now. He’s going to make the most of it.

“You know, he’s tall and has those pretty blue eyes and a full head of hair if he’d grow out the sides more. Plus, he’s not that stupid and has only minimal scarring – not that your scars are bad either” Peter says quickly when he registers Yondu’s darkening mood, “but he’s not like Taserface.” Peter shutters then continues, “I’m just saying, some people could really appreciate his aesthetic.”

Yondu thinks li’l Quill might have developed a tiny crush on his babysitter. The boy had been growing fairly rapidly in recent months, thinning out despite the alarming uptick in his appetite. He had sent Quill to get dewormed in med bay a couple times, but it did nothing to quell the boy’s seemingly bottomless pit of a stomach. And yet, despite his increasing height and decreasing width, Quill still has a layer of puppy fat about his cheeks that had yet to diminish. Yondu idly wonders just how underage the Terran is and how concerned he should be about this new development.

Yondu is looking at Peter like he’s unimpressed with Peter’s argument in favor of Kraglin’s allure. Peter needs to sweeten the deal.

“Plus, he’s got a big dick,” he points out a little too enthusiastically.

A white-hot knife of panic bursts in Yondu’s chest, dragging down to his gut, twisting into his entrails, tightening them into a sickening knot. He lifts Peter by the scruff of his leathers and slams him against the wall, getting his face so close, Peter can smell his sour breath. He says evenly, low and deadly, “This is a very very important question, boy. I’m only goin’ to ask ya once, and I want ya to be honest with me, so no lyin’. I can smell a rat.” He shakes Peter for emphasis. “Now, when did ya see Obfonteri’s dick?”

Peter reflexively claws Yondu’s hands with his own in fear. “In the showers when we wash up every couple months,” he chokes out. “It’s right there. How can I not see it? It’s kind of hard to miss.”

Relieved that he doesn’t have to murder Kraglin and find another First Mate, Yondu abruptly drops the kid hard on the ground. Peter rubs his smarting backside.

“Ya don’t stare at another man’s tacklebox in the showers, ya hear. Shower time’s fer cleanin’ only. Now scram, son.” Yondu taps his boot against Peter’s hip.

Over the ensuing days, Yondu can’t get Quill’s words out of his head. He catches himself watching the two of them together. They spend a lot of time in each other’s company, which is unsurprising considering Yondu ordered Kraglin to act as Quill’s primary babysitter, but unlike before when Quill would attempt to shake any and all adult supervision, the boy actively follows Kraglin around like a lost puppy. To his credit, Kraglin doesn’t curry favor with the boy, only carrying out his orders with a perfunctory execution bordering occasional neglect and a healthy dose of exasperation. Still, Yondu should keep an eye on the situation… just in case.

 

* * *

 

It’s been 10 days since Kraglin’s last shower before his run-in with Retch, and the man smells _again_ , Peter notes. Worse yet, he doesn’t even seem to understand it’s a problem, refusing Peter’s multiple suggestions that he join him in the communal showers on several occasions. That just won’t do. If Yondu is to notice Kraglin’s particular _charms_ , then he needs to differentiate himself from the rest of the repulsive crew. Not smelling like ass would be a good start.

Unfortunately, Kraglin is stubborn. Peter needs more than gentle nudgings and subtle hints to extract the man’s compliance in this endeavor.

“Whoops!” Peter exclaims, tripping and spilling his rehydrated milk all over the back of Kraglin’s jumpsuit as they walk towards their table. “Shit! Sorry Kraglin… Looks like you’re due for a clothing change and a shower.” It’s a damn shame.

 _Clumsy fucker_ , Kraglin thinks, but he feels the back of his head, finding it dry.

“S’okay. It only got on the back of my leathers. ‘S waterproof. It’ll jus’ slick off,” he says, continuing his way through the crowd.

Peter narrows his eyes. Kraglin will NOT smell like spoiled milk layered on top of his natural foul body odor. He speeds ahead of his babysitter and takes a chair at the corner end of the long table. Just as Kraglin reaches the seat across from him, Peter sticks his foot out, causing Brahl passing in the opposite direction from behind Peter to trip and stumble. He catches himself on the edge of the table, but his bowl of grey mash goes flying, dumping its contents on Kraglin’s head, dripping viscous globules down his face and inside the collar of his leathers.

Brahl turns towards his attacker with a snarl, but upon discovering the identity of the culprit, he pauses. It’s the Captain’s boy, the only untouchable on board.

“Oh! I’m so sorry Brahl! Here, take mine instead,” Peter offers. When Brahl appears to hesitate, he shoves the bowl into the man’s hands, “I insist.”

Turning his attention to Kraglin, he says, “It looks like you can use a shower, yeah?”

 _The li’l bastard did that on purpose_ , Kraglin thinks. In a fit of ill-advised rage, he grabs a handful of mash from his forehead and smashes it into Pete’s hair smearing it down his face.

Peter coughs and wipes the mess from his eyes.

He says: “Looks like we’re both due for a shower.”

 

* * *

 

Once stripped down in the otherwise-vacant officer’s showers, Kraglin lathers up a shampoo cake (no way he would use liquid shampoo these days after what happened to Taserface), scrubs the soapy suds into his Mohawk, face, and chest hair, then grabs the detachable showerhead for a more concentrated power-washing of the gloopy stickiness clinging to his head and front. Tipping forward and bracing against the wall in front of him, he waves the nozzle over himself, rinsing off with pressurized grey water. During the entire operation, Kraglin only looks ahead at the wall or down at his own body, adhering to the unspoken code of all communal bathing facilities galaxy-wide.

Peter isn’t so courteous.

“How come you never wash your back?” Pete asks him from across the open shower room, openly ogling the thick water-matted hair cascading down, thinning and terminating at the top of Kraglin’s bony nonexistent ass.

“S’fine. Shampoo just runs through it on the way down. It gits clean enough,” Kraglin responds. Really, with his questionable hygiene habits, Peter is the last person to dole out advice on the subject. Who showers as often as that kid?

“No, it doesn’t! And there’s so much hair on there, you really should be shampooing it separately or shaving it,” Pete says. Lathering up his own soap cake against a fluffy loofa, he crosses the short distance between them and tries to rub it against Kraglin’s exposed back. Maybe the other man simply can’t reach?

Kraglin immediately recoils from his touch, whipping around and slapping Pete’s oversized sponge away.

“Quit it, Pete! Ya just don’t touch another man in the shower!”

Sure, when Pete was a waist-high runt, he exhibited less fear toward the Terran-looking young Xandarian compared to other Ravagers, including the intimidating blue captain. As a result, Cap’n had ordered Kraglin to accompany Pete and help scrub his hair during his monthly shower, which Kraglin did while clothed and with his eyes averted, watching out for other men who may take an interest in the too-young nude Terran. But now that Pete is older, Yondu really needs to talk to the boy about adult boundaries. Someone else might take Peter’s tactile initiative as an invitation.

Kraglin turns the showerhead on Peter, spraying him directly in the face with a sluice of hard water. The boy flails in surprise, then glares at Kraglin, dripping and furious; his adolescent face screwed up in a petulant expression.

“You obviously need help!” Pete sputters. He is only trying to assist Kraglin in attracting the man of his dreams. How is he going to manage that with crunchy back hair?

Peter examines the other man. Considering Kraglin’s scruffy underdeveloped jawline, scrawny body with visible ribs over a small rounded belly, and thin gangly chicken-legs covered in scraggly hair, Pete only has so much to work with. Kraglin could maybe expend a modicum of effort to improve his appearance. If he could just work with Pete a little, Kraglin will finally get laid regularly and maybe he and Yondu will both be less sexually-frustrated and prone to violence towards the latter’s Terran ward. If Peter just so happened to benefit as well, then that’ll just be a nice side-effect, a little bonus. But all that can’t happen if Kraglin won’t maintain an acceptable level of basic hygiene. This is for the greater good, so they can all be happy.

Really, Pete is the paragon of altruism. Now, if only the beneficiary of that altruism would cooperate…

“Mind yer own back!” Still facing Peter, Kraglin brandishes the nozzle like a blaster and gives another short warning spurt against the boy’s chest.

Armed with the sudsy loofa, Peter attacks Kraglin.

 

* * *

 

 _I’m bein’ paranoid_ , Yondu thinks as he heads towards his quarters. _Quill just has a li’l crush on Kraglin. There’s no way Kraglin feels the same or has done anythin’ to the boy_. Kraglin is a trustworthy man who has never displayed any disturbing proclivities toward children. He barely tolerates Quill as it is.

Yondu hears a commotion coming from the officer’s shower-block. Based on the timber of the muffled voice, it’s clearly Quill, which isn’t unusual. The boy has a worrying obsession with cleanliness Yondu has yet to break and showers twice, maybe even thrice, a month. However, the high-pitched shriek that follows is slightly less ordinary. Yondu tells himself he’s not particularly alarmed; he’s just… curious is all. The speed at which he ~~runs~~ power-walks to the door, slides it open, and bounds into the room has nothing to do with the bubbling not-panic rising in his chest.

What he sees is simultaneously not as bad as he imagined and the worst thing possible. His first mate, maybe even his best friend (a thing he’d only confess when plied with too much alcohol to stand) and the man he trusted to look after Quill when he couldn’t, had the naked boy pinned to the wall. His face set in an irritated snarl, Kraglin’s outstretched arms plant one hand against the side of Quill’s head with the other trapping both arms together behind his back. A lone loofa is at their feet while a detachable showerhead lay forgotten on the floor, spraying water up against them like a sprinkler. The only saving grace is the space between their bodies, which is as wide as Kraglin can manage while still restraining Quill.

“Ya got thirty seconds t’ explain,” Yondu says in a low deadly tone that often prefaces a whistle. The fact that he hasn’t done so already is a testament to their years of comradery, a gesture of his magnanimous generosity towards the other man. Kraglin lets go of the boy and stands at attention while Yondu grabs a scratchy brown towel from the stack near the door, crosses over, and drapes it across Quill’s shoulders, all the while glaring daggers at his first mate.

“25 seconds,” Yondu warns.

Kraglin opens his mouth to tell Cap’n that the boy had essentially gone insane, but Quill beats him to it, having a lot of practice in the art of bullshit as well as the advantage of not currently being the subject of Captain’s ire.

“We were just messing around, Yondu,” Quill says, wrapping the towel around his waist. Water drips from his ginger-brown mop while he turns too-innocent eyes at the furious Captain. “You know, having a water fight.”

Quill looks over at Kraglin and smiles brightly, “He was winning.”

When Pete turns back to Yondu, he sees his face shift from anger to confusion to an expression Quill has never seen before but might be mistaken for concern.

“You. Come with me,” Yondu grips Quill’s upper arm and practically drags him out of the showers, away from his first mate. When they exit, Kraglin lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

As Yondu pulls Quill along the corridor towards his quarters, he orders, “Yer not showerin’ with Obfonteri no more.” _Especially if you both can’t keep your hands to yourself_ goes unsaid.

 

* * *

 

Having missed mess hall due to Quill’s antics, Kraglin removes the wrapper on one of the sweet ration bars from his personal stash and bites in, chewing thoughtfully. He takes another bite, but where he expects chewy consistent softness, he finds firm bits of chalk nestled in the pliable bar. He spits out the mouthful into his hand, and roots around the slimy dark brown bolus, detecting a white pill split in two. Rattled by his discovery, he tears up the rest of the bar, finding yet another pill. He opens another ration bar, finding an additional two pills. Then another and another, bar after bar, finding more of the same.

_Poison!_

Kraglin slides open his door and runs down the hall to the bogs, where he forces himself to vomit until he’s empty and shaky. Rolling up the arms of his jumpsuit, he messily wipes his mouth on the bare skin of his forearm as he makes his way on unsteady feet to the washbasin to clean up.

Someone is obviously trying to assassinate him, but who?

It had to be someone with not only access to poison, which doesn’t really narrow down the list of suspects, but also access to his quarters, which did, _significantly_. There’s also the chosen murder weapon. Most Ravagers prefer to off their victims up close, to see the exact moment of death as they stick them, to see the fear in their eyes drain to vacancy. Poison is so bloodless, so impersonal… Only a coward would–

_Quill_

The boy’s persistent assault on his person, Horuz’s drink, the missing jumpsuits, Retch, his poisoned stash, everything that’s gone wrong recently… It’s been Quill all along. That earlier truce had been a ruse – a ruse! – designed to ensure Kraglin would never suspect the brat of such treachery.

He considers other scenarios, other explanations for the chain of events, but there is only one logical explanation that fits all the facts: Peter Quill is trying to kill him. No way Kraglin is going to let that happen. He’s not going out like that, done in by the mechanisms of one scrappy brat who might still have some of his milk teeth. He has to warn Cap’n that the boy’s cherubic appearance is not what it seems, that an insidious darkness lay beneath that innocuous façade. Unfortunately, Quill had clawed one success from the ruins of all his various failed schemes to murder him: he managed to erode Captain’s trust in Kraglin.

Now that Kraglin is aware of the threat, he’ll watch his back around Quill. Perhaps the boy will slip up, giving Kraglin proof of his true nefarious nature…

Maybe then Captain will believe him and finally space the duplicitous brat.

 

* * *

 

It’s been two days since the shower debacle, and Yondu has been quietly monitoring the situation, never leaving the two of them alone.

He knows Kraglin. His first mate and best friend is NOT a child molester. But then again… Kraglin has been acting unusual recently, sexually desperate and hitting on practically anything that breathes on the Eclector. If it got bad enough, would he take advantage of a trusting child eager to please? Perhaps it’s time to admit he doesn’t know the man as well as he thought he did.

From the corner of his eye, Yondu watches Quill watch Kraglin. The boy keeps looking between Kraglin and Yondu, as if checking to see if Yondu is looking away from him before shifting his gaze back to the object of his childish affections. Kraglin is smarter about it, more guarded, choosing to pay attention to his work instead of the mooning child, but occasionally, when Quill isn’t looking, Kraglin regards the boy with an almost predatory eye. Really, the boy is so obvious, and Kraglin is such a stealthy bastard… Yondu mentally kicks himself for not seeing it earlier. He had saved Peter from his murderous father only to deliver the boy into the arms of a different type of monster. Hell, he even told the boy to do _everything_ Kraglin said, he remembers with sudden queasiness.

How long had this been going on right under his nose? Had it progressed to– No, that was unthinkable. He would have noticed such a thing going on in his own ship… wouldn’t he?

Yondu is not sure when obligation had given way to sentiment, but it was undeniable. The boy is his: his to beat, his to teach, his to protect. Quill. Is. _His_. And nobody, not even the man he calls friend, is going to touch his boy like that. Quill pulls up the headphones from around his neck to place them over his ears and presses play. The slow beat of _Fooled Around and Fell in Love_ , soft and barely perceptible on the lower-end of Yondu’s hearing range from this distance, is a disconcerting backdrop to Quill’s continued furtive looks at his first mate.

He can’t sit idly by and watch this happen.

Yondu scans the list of upcoming jobs Kraglin had prepared. What he needs is an excuse, a two-man mission for him and Kraglin to have some time alone so Yondu can suss out the extent of the relationship between his boy and first mate. If only one man made it back to the Eclector after…well, it wouldn’t be the first time they lost a Ravager on a job. Naturally, Quill will be devastated, but he’ll understand when he’s older. Yondu just needs the perfect cover for his ~~interrogation~~ friendly discussion.

Retrieval. Utoruh Ruby. Bhirul Tombs. Two man job. 15,000 units.

 _Perfect_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter, Kraglin, Yondu, and Yondu’s yaka arrow go for a walk in the park, like in the good old days. Peter is 100% positive they are going to hook up. Peter is an optimist like that.


	5. Terrified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not that I’m sentimental. It’s just that I’m terrified!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don’t know, the musk note in cologne/perfume is from a chemical in the anal glands of musk deer.

**Eight Years Earlier**

“So yer really going to do it, Yondu? Strike out on yer own? Start a new faction?” Kraglin asks him. They sit at the end of the bar of a nondescript dive located at the edge of Nova space. The lights buzz low and yellow, casting a dull glow across their faces and ambient surroundings.

“Already cleared it with Stakar. Figure it’s ‘bout time I made a name fer myself: Captain Yondu Udonta. It has a nice ring to it.”

“Yer leaving us then?” _Leaving me_ is what Kraglin implies. He’s going to miss the bastard. No one can clear a room of hostiles quite like Yondu… or look half as good doing it. _Where did that come from?_ Kraglin stares into his half-empty glass and blearily considers whether he’s had a touch too much. Against his better judgement, he tips the drink to his lips.

Yondu is quiet for a long minute before he knocks back his drink in one gulp. “I’m putting together a new crew, Kraglin. Goin’ ta fill it with loyal men, men I can trust…” Yondu studies his empty glass on the bar, tapping the cool exterior with a chipped claw. “There’s a First Mate position open, and I’d like it t’ be you if yer interested.”

“Really?”

“Yep,” Yondu holds up two fingers to the barkeep, who slides two more drinks in front of the duo.

“Ya think I’m ready?” Kraglin queries, a bit too earnest.

“Hell yeah or why the fuck would I be askin’. Ain’t no one I’d rather have right beside me. Well, ‘sides Marty, but that shiny bastard’s never goin’ ta leave Stakar… But hey, yer top two,” Yondu shrugs, lifting the fresh drink off the bar. Kraglin lightly swats his shoulder, but he copies Yondu’s gesture, picking up his own. If (when) he accepts, this will be the last time they’ll be on more-or-less even footing, rank-wise.

Feeling a bit more confident in Kraglin’s ultimate answer, Yondu proposes, “So whatchu say, Kraglin? You and me, blastin’ our way through the starways, stealin’ shit, flippin’ off NovaCorp, makin’ our bounties soar.” At the last word, He swings his arm in a high wide sweep palm out, letting it fall around the other man’s thin shoulders to squeeze him in close.

“Could be fun,” Kraglin concedes. He clinks his glass against Yondu’s, and they both drink to the future.

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

Kraglin has quite the spring to his step on his way to the docks. He and Yondu hadn’t done a duo mission together in ages, not since Quill started tagging along on group missions, and Yondu felt it necessary for them to supervise him. He admits he is looking forward to this outing with the Captain, sans any murderous Terrans. For once, he won’t have to worry about keeping the little ingrate alive, or watching his back to make sure Quill doesn’t stick a knife in it. Nothing can dampen his mood.

As Kraglin passes a side corridor, Quill leaps out from the intersecting hallway and spritzes him with a mysterious bottle. Kraglin thrashes his arms to protect his face from the musky cloud, thinking it may be mace or possibly acid, that Quill has finally abandoned subtlety and subterfuge in favor of a more direct means of grievous bodily harm. However, when all the chemical attack does is leave him stinking of mammalian swamp ass, he swears and cuffs the boy.

“The fuck did ya spray me with?” Kraglin asks, confiscating the bottle. He examines the label, trying to ascertain the purpose of Quill’s guerilla attack.

“It’s cologne to make you smell better. You reek. By the way, you’re welcome, you stinky bag of dicks!” Peter replies, rubbing the back of his head against the sting and reaching for the bottle back. Kraglin considers spacing it but lets the boy nab it instead. If Quill uses it on himself, Kraglin will be able to smell him coming, like belling a cat.

“It smells like the ass-end of a prey animal,” Kraglin notes, trying to unsuccessfully brush the scent off himself. He will be sharing an M-ship with Captain soon, and they can’t exactly crack a window to air out the stench without being sucked into the void. This is just another ploy on Quill’s part to drive a wedge between Captain and First Mate.

“One: It does not, and Two: Even if it did, it would be an improvement. Trust me,” Peter nods sagely. This cologne is guaranteed to drive the ladies wild; the vendor who sold it to him told him so, and if it worked on the fairer sex, it would definitely work on Yondu. Probably. Maybe… Well, it couldn’t hurt.

“Go get him, tiger!” Peter hollers, waving at Kraglin’s back as he stalks off towards the awaiting M-ship.

Kraglin flips him off without slowing his speed or turning to face him.

 _Well, that was uncalled for_ , Peter thinks huffily.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s gambit to separate Kraglin and his Captain works, Kraglin realizes with disappointment. Yondu covertly scents the air then barely greets him, addressing him curtly with a formality that never defined their relationship previously, before boarding his M-ship without so much as a glance at his first mate but with the expectation that Kraglin follow unasked. Once aboard, Yondu remains standoffish, his body language taut and closed off. He only grunts or gives monosyllabic answers to all Kraglin’s attempts at conversation and jokes. Kraglin vaguely wonders if Peter managed to procure and spray him with a Centaurian repellent. He wouldn’t put it past the little shit to sabotage his oldest friendship in his vendetta against Kraglin.

They land a couple clicks downhill from their destination amongst a small grotto of stunted shrubby trees. After they complete the job, Yondu figures the distance should give them enough time on their way back for a little chat.

But for now, they have to be careful during approach and extraction. The Bhirul Tombs are a protected Galactic Heritage Site on the planet Dubariel. Formed from an ancient volcanic eruption, the original bedrock of the tombs boasted a layer of soft lava rock over hard capstone. The native peoples of Dubariel carved the soft rock into elaborate crypts, where they house the bodies of their leaders and dignitaries. Although no longer an uncontacted race, they still had respect for their old traditions and didn’t take kindly to grave robbers.

They work in silence, avoiding the modern day security cameras and sensors outside as well as the booby traps within. Snatching the large ruby symbolizing an eternal heart from the wizened chest of its prior owner, Yondu pockets the gem on his person. Kraglin might not make it back, and he doesn’t want to forget their prize on the body.

Lost in their own thoughts with the tension thick and chafing between them, Yondu accidentally trips a silent alarm, unnoticed, on their way out.

The descent is a crumbly pathway of smooth sanded stones once cobbled together, but now eroded with time in some patches and completely upended in others, creating small rock outcropping along the way that have to be climbed over or around. Prickly trees flank the right side, while the left slopes down to either ever more trees or sheer Cliffside. Kraglin leads, gingerly testing rocks for sturdiness in more precarious spots, with Yondu trailing behind.

As they pick their way down the craggy path of rocky soil, avoiding lose stone footings, they hit a relatively straight stretch of road. Yondu breaks the awkward silence, addressing the man ahead of him: “We’ve known each other a long time, Obfonteri, and I trust ya more’n most.” _Trusted_ , but why quibble over tenses when talking to a dead man walking.

 _Ah, he speaks._ Kraglin is relieved that the effects of Peter’s spray are finally wearing off. “Thanks, Cap’n.”

“That’s why I put you in charge of Quill’s safety. The boy’s always gettin’ in some trouble,” Yondu says, affecting a neutral conversational tone. Up ahead, he sees the footpath veer near a ravine. If he whistles just right, Kraglin’s body will drop over the side, and he won’t even have to break a sweat with corpse disposal.

“I thought it was punishment,” Kraglin mumbles, annoyed.

“What was that?”

Kraglin coughs then speaks up, “It’s been real fun, I meant.”

Yondu frowns. Babysitting Quill was never meant to be _fun_ for any of the parties involved. It’s hard, thankless work with little reward, like all parenting.

“You know how old Quill is?” Yondu tries a different tract.

“16? 17? Not too sure.” Kraglin barely keeps track of his own age, much less that of the Terran. It’s not like they ever threw the kid a birthday party.

“He’s 14, Obfonteri,” Yondu informs him sternly.

“Figured we had ‘im for longer than that, Cap’n,” Kraglin says. It feels like 20 years. At least.

“The other day, Quill was tryin’ ta dance by walkin’ backward on his toes when we stopped at that Calorzian moon. Called it the moon-walk. Kind’a a round-about way o’ sayin’ the locals are backward hicks, but he’s still workin’ on his more-creative insults.” Yondu stops his downward trek. They’ve reached the prime location to have it out. “The boy’s always been a fanciful sort.”

Noticing his Captain’s halt in progress, Kraglin stops as well. Yondu must want to take a break, maybe admire the view. Kraglin looks out over the ravine towards the horizon dotted with sparse stubby trees and tall rock pile pillars where the erosion had been more severe.

“Sounds like somethin’ Pete would do,” Kraglin shrugs.

“Sounds like somethin’ a child would do,” Yondu says with gravity, trying to impress on Kraglin just how young the boy is and how inappropriate a relationship with him would be.

“Yeah, I guess, but Pete’s always doin’ childish things.” Kraglin says nonchalantly. He checks his comm watch. They aren’t too far from the M-ship now. Perhaps they can continue this conversation later, when they aren’t scarcely a mile out from the location of their most recent heist.

Still frowning, Yondu decides to get to the meat of the matter, “You know, some men… they like ‘em green like that, underripe as it were. They see a kid like Quill, and they get to thinkin’ maybe he should learn ‘bout certain things, stuff adults do. These men may consider themselves a mentor, may even think they doin’ the kid a favor by teachin’ ‘im. Maybe the kid even kind’a likes ‘em, trusts ‘em… But something like that, it makes me sick, like I could whistle, if you catch my meaning, Obfonteri.”

Kraglin freezes, dread creeping up his spine, his voice deadly serious, “What’d Pete tell you?”

The way Peter had been acting since Retch failed to kill him: the showers, following Kraglin around, trying to ensure they smell the same… Quill was setting Kraglin up so when he tearfully confessed to Yondu that Kraglin had been molesting him, it would all lead to one conclusion.

Observing the sudden guilty curve of the other man’s body and change in his demeanor, Yondu realizes his first mate, his friend, knows exactly what he’s talking about. Kraglin knows he’s been caught. Yondu feels vindicated but nauseated.

“I want to hear it from you.”

Kraglin runs his hand through his Mohawk in frustration and looks his Captain dead in the eye: “Shit, Cap’n. Did Pete put ya up to this? The kid hates me; been tryin’ ta off me for weeks.”

“Is that right?” Yondu’s cool indifference belies the fury boiling within him. It’s a rising tide of anger and hurt, tinged with an overall cast of black betrayal tasting of bile in his mouth.

“He tell you I touched ‘im or raped ‘im or somethin’, ‘cause it weren’t like that. I never laid a hand on the brat in that way,” Kraglin pleads his case. Yondu knows him. He knows he’s not attracted to children. He would never– How could Yondu think him capable of something so unspeakable

“I didn’t say all that,” Yondu’s voice is infuriatingly calm.

“You implied it, Cap’n. Pete’s a damned liar. He’s the one tryin’ ta git me in the showers more often than needed. Keeps tryin’ ta git me naked an’ touch _me_.”

Yondu pauses, his lips curling into a growl. _‘He came onto me’_ is the oldest trick in the book.

Yondu remembers the first time he took Quill out on his M-ship and let him sit in the pilot’s seat. _Look, Yondu! I did it!_ Quill had said, wide eyes joyful, when he held the ship steady before shakily turning it around back towards the Eclector. Away from the crew, Yondu had ruffled his hair then, looking down at his boy with such pride, surprised at the swell of joy that bright gap-toothed smile inspired.

How dare Kraglin exploit that innocence and blame Quill for his own deviancy?

“Quill didn’t tell me nothin’, but you just did,” Yondu snarls, anger blooming in his chest, fiery and red. He flips his coat, revealing the glowing arrow in its holster, and purses his lips. Kraglin flinches in expectation.

_Zip. Zip._

Kraglin drops limp to the ground.

Yondu palms his own neck, feeling the cool metal of the tranquilizer bullet before his surroundings heave and fuzz out to grey black.

 

* * *

 

The world returns in blurry colors sharpening into defined shapes as Yondu regains consciousness. There’s a dingy off-white ceiling above his head with steel bars glancing the top of his peripheral vision. The soft background babble becomes recognizable as conversation.

“…Utoruh Ruby on ‘em. Nova is sending a prisoner transport vessel to pick ‘em up. They’ll scan ‘em through the database. From the look of these guys, they must have a record... an extensive one,” one guard says to another as they pass Yondu towards the main door to the holding cells.

“Paperwork’s going to be a bitch,” the other replies as the door shuts, and one resumes his station outside.

Once they’re gone, Yondu tries to sit up, straining against the handcuffs confining his arms behind his back and struggling to shake the after-effects of the tranquilizer dart. To his trepidation, Yondu can’t feel the steady hum in his crystalline implant indicating the presence of his Yaka arrow. He checks his holster to find it unsurprisingly empty, but worryingly, he can’t sense the arrow’s location at all. Is it out of range? Did those fuckers leave it at the site? No… that wouldn’t make any sense. Vaguely, he registers that he can’t even feel his implant at all. It’s numb at the crown of his head. Perhaps whatever drug had been in the tranquilizer has yet to completely wear off.

He notes that the pedophile is still unconscious, handcuffed next to him on the floor of the holding cell. He manages a swift kick to the other man’s stomach, but he’s too weak from the drugs to cause any real damage. Still, there’s a satisfying _oof_ and a groan as Kraglin curls in on himself before rolling into a seated position. Yondu gives him another kick to his hip, hoping to give the scrawny fucker a bone bruise.

“Stop that!” Kraglin says weakly, slithering away from Yondu towards the other end of the cell where he uses the bars to sit up.

“When we git out’a ‘ere, I’m goin’ ta dip yer sorry dick in honey an’ hang ya by yer ankles fer the carnivorous wasps on Thyrum, you fuckin’ cock-nosed son of a two-unit whore,” Yondu says low and furious.

“I didn’t do nothing!” Kraglin yells back.

“How did ya convince ‘im he loved you? Did you pretend to be kind to ‘im? Little boy alone on a big ship. Perhaps protected ‘im from the others and gave ‘im a little extra to eat, maybe even loosened the collar a little when he had some trouble breathing?”

 _Collar what now?_ Kraglin thinks hazily.

“Did he cry the first time? Tell ya it hurt?” Yondu blathers on. He failed to protect Quill, and now it’s happening all over again.

“I’m not into boys!” Kraglin snaps.

“You think I’m stupid? I’ve known ya a long time and seen the hookers ya hire. You like dick!” Yondu tries to scramble closer to Kraglin, who moves away, out of reach. They chase each other in slow motion within the confines of their cell, scooching and rolling along the dirty floor.

“Yeah, when that dick is attached to a man. I’m into men, not boys, same as you,” Kraglin can’t believe he has to explain this to his Captain, his friend. They both stop; pursued and pursuer regarding the other.

Kraglin continues, “Remember when we first picked up Quill? He was a small runt with a big oversized voice, kept bitin’ us. I swear his belly-achin’ echoed throughout the Eclector. Hearin’ him, you would’a thought we was killin’ him. An’ then he use to bawl even louder every time we said we was goin’ ta eat ‘im, despite never seein’ us eat a person.”

“Yeah, he was a stupid li’l fucker back then,” Yondu reminisces, rolling up to his haunches and testing the range of his handcuffs. It’s fairly tight.

“He’s a stupid li’l fucker now,” Kraglin adds, “Don’t matter how old Quill gets, he’ll always be that small annoyin’ runt with more teeth than sense. Can’t ever see ‘im any other way.”

Yondu almost believes him.

“Let’s get out of ‘ere first, Cap’n,” Kraglin says, using his freakish flexibility to slide his joined long spidery arms under his spindly legs, bring his hands in front of him. “Then you can work out later if ya still want’a kill me.”

Kraglin works a lockpick out of the seam of his leather cuff, then gets to work on the handcuffs. Yondu scowls, but he does the same behind his back. Sometimes in situations like these, he wishes he had that asshole’s slim form so he can slip his handcuffed arms up front, but then again, he’d have to sacrifice his nice plump ass. He uses that on a daily basis. It wouldn’t be a fair trade.

Kraglin unlocks his handcuffs first. He advances on Yondu, who starts to work a little faster thinking Obfonteri might be aiming to strangle him to save his own hide (that’s what Yondu would do), but Kraglin only bends down behind him to help him out of his cuffs.

“I could have gotten it,” Yondu informs him. This doesn’t make them square, not by a longshot.

“I know, sir,” Kraglin doesn’t argue.

Together, they pick the lock to the holding cell, knock out the main guard, steal his blaster and take out the others. On the way out, Yondu nabs his arrow off one of the desks while Kraglin takes his knives and removes a couple fingers from the first now-conscious guard to retrieve the combination for the station’s safe and obtain the ruby. No point in going home empty-handed.

They steal the station’s ship, which Yondu insists he pilot and erratically flies back to their landing position. They touch ground and exit the police craft heading towards their M-ship.

Kraglin asks, “We good, Cap’n?”

Yondu is silent for a moment before he whirls back, clenched fist connecting with Kraglin’s face. Kraglin stumbles, but he’s up in time to block Yondu’s next strike and parry one of his own. Kraglin puts up a good fight, but Yondu is all muscle with enough hand-to-hand experience to make it no contest. He knees Kraglin in the groin, and rushes him, pushing the other man to the ground with Yondu on top. Pinning Kraglin down with his substantial weight, he delivers punch after punch, the skin of his calloused hands splitting on Kraglin’s teeth as he continues his volley.

Yondu’s implant is still too anaesthetized to use his arrow effectively, but he’s never needed it to be deadly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, Write_Like_An_American! Remember when we were talking about what would happen if Yondu thought Kraglin and Peter were more than coworkers or begrudging friends? Yeah… about that…


	6. Playing with Matches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I’ve learned playing with matches a girl can get burned. So, bring me no ring, groom me no groom, find me no find, catch me no catch.

**Six-ish Years Earlier**

Kraglin presses a hand to disengage the biolock on the door to Captain’s quarters. Carrying a holopad, he intends to go over the daily post-mortem report detailing their shrinking supplies in the Eclector’s holds, declining funds in their coffers, and dwindling prospects on the horizon, dating back to Yondu’s recent exile from the 99 Ravager clans. What he finds inside is a similarly-diminished Captain, lying curled up on the bed, face turned away from him and towards the rusted wall. His boots lay haphazard on the floor and his crumpled coat thrown in the corner with the arrow holster slung over it.

“Sir?” Kraglin hesitates at the threshold before entering and sliding the door closed behind him. The crew can’t see this.

“Koz, Perth, and Baryk left,” Yondu observes from his prone position. That brings the current total to 24, including the early ones he had killed himself during the first wave of desertions after Stakar handed down his judgement.

Kraglin places his holopad on the small desk and crosses the short distance to the bed.

“Better off without ‘em,” Kraglin says. It’s not exactly true… recruitment is down, and the Eclector requires many hands on deck to keep her running, but it’s what Yondu needs to hear right now.

“Are ya leavin’, Obfonteri?” Yondu asks, suddenly tired and resigned.

“No sir,” Kraglin answers. He sits at the edge of the bed, removes his boots, and lies down next to Yondu. When Yondu doesn’t protest, he drapes a tentative arm over his midsection. They haven’t lain like this since before Yondu made Captain, back when they were both crew under Stakar.

“Wouldn’t right blame ya if ya did. You could prob’ly go back to the Starhawk, say you was only followin’ orders,” Yondu says without acknowledging the comfortingly warm weight of Kraglin’s body at his back.

“Ain’t leavin’, Cap’n,” he replies simply.

“Then yer a fuckin’ idjit, Obfonteri,” Yondu tells him, quiet and seething, bristling at the sheer stupidity of his first mate and that irresponsibly wonderful streak of loyalty Yondu knows he doesn’t half deserve, “Situation was reverse, I would’a left ya in a heartbeat. Would’a took yer best knife on my way out, the well-balanced one with the nice handle that don’t snap off when cuttin’ through bone.”

“Right, Cap’n, an’ then you would’a stole my M-ship, too,” Kraglin adds, yawning.

“Damn straight.”

“Maybe slice me open an’ hung me by m’ entrails as a hood ornament to show Stakar you weren’t no party to it all.”

“Prob’ly.”

“Well, lucky fer both of us, I’m too stupid to even think ‘bout any o’ that,” Kraglin says, closing his eyes.

And that is that as far as he’s concerned.

Yondu grunts. He’s silent for a moment, then: “You should leave, Kraglin, ya know that, right?” He tells him, voice gravelly and sounding a touch vulnerable to the other man’s ear. Kraglin settles in further, curving his body to better fit the hunch of Yondu’s own, his arm pulling Captain in closer at his stomach.

“I ain’t never leavin’ ya, Yondu.”

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

Blood rush-roaring through his ears, all Yondu hears is the faint _thud thud thud_ of hard blows interspersed with Kraglin’s weak pained groans.

_Are ya leavin’, Obfonteri?_

His powerful knees dig into Kraglin’s arms, immobilizing them, but truthfully, Kraglin wouldn’t have the strength to fight back even if he wasn’t pinned down under blue brawn. Yondu can’t see Kraglin’s eyes through the purpled bulging flesh swollen shut. Blue blood flows in rivulets from multiple cuts burst over his eye bridge, across his nose, around his mouth and down his chin.

_Wouldn’t right blame ya if ya did._

If Yondu continues like this, Kraglin won’t last much longer. His skull will cave, and his face will take on the consistency of wet ground meat. Only then, Quill will be safe and this nightmare over.

_I ain’t never leavin’ ya, Yondu._

Yondu’s last strike lands in the soft dirt next to Kraglin’s head.

Bruised split-knuckled fists twist the blood-wet collar of Kraglin’s leathers, lifting his limp head off the ground. Inches from his face, Yondu breathes heavy and erratic from equal parts exertion and rage clawing at his brain and sick dread scratching his insides. Kraglin’s head flops back as he struggles to suck in air in his tilted position, managing only shallow gasps.

“Stay the fuck away from Quill, or I’ll kill ya,” Yondu threatens somberly, hot breath washing over Kraglin’s broken face. He means it. They both know it.

Kraglin coughs, dark blue blood bubbling up from his busted mouth, spilling over and running down his puffy discolored cheeks to pool at the back of his head, crusting the hairs there.

“Gladly sir,” he wheezes.

 

* * *

 

Through a porthole in the starboard side of the Eclector, Peter sees Yondu’s M-ship approach. Positively giddy, he bounds toward the docks to greet the new couple upon their return. Perhaps, they will emerge from the bowels of the craft, holding hands and looking deep into each other’s eyes, bright with the shining misty light of new love. Kraglin will find Peter on deck, thanking him on bended knee for his new-found good fortune.

Okay… maybe that last part was unrealistic, but he should at least be rewarded with a vast reduction in chores and corresponding increase in personal freedom and autonomy. After all, with both his primary captor and reluctant babysitter otherwise preoccupied in their repulsive, raunchy love for each other, they should have less time and inclination to micromanage one young Terran.

When Yondu alone surfaces from the docked M-ship, Peter is perplexed.

“Hey Yondu, where’s Kraglin?”

Yondu looks at his boy with an unreadable expression, then responds, “Still on the ship.”

“Oh, okay,” Peter says with disappointment. Maybe the other man is resting from several bouts of enthusiastic lovemaking? Yondu looks a bit tired and worn himself. Peter’s eyes slip to Yondu’s hands, bloodied and bruised at the knuckles. “Um, Yondu? You’re bleeding.”

“S’nothing. Though that fucker inside may need Doc.” He inclines his head slightly, indicating the interior of the M-ship.

Peter looks around the other man to see Kraglin, battered and unconscious, sprawled on the floor of the M-ship. His face, bruised and crusted with blood, is barely recognizable.

“Kraglin!” Peter tries to slip around Yondu, but he’s caught by a firm grip on his arm.

Yondu curses whatever impulse had compelled him to drag Kraglin back to the Eclector. He should have left that pedophile for NovaCorp to collect and transport to the Kyln, where the prisoners would have finished the job for him. Quill would have mourned Kraglin’s death but moved on eventually with little complication.

“Yer not to fraternize with Obfonteri no more.” Yondu’s tone is firm, inviting no argument.

Peter doesn’t take the hint.

“What? Why?”

Yondu avoids Quill’s questions, “Yer gettin’ a new babysitter.”

 

* * *

 

“Tullk, why did Yondu beat up Kraglin?” Peter asks his new handler while the man examines navigation charts on the Bridge. No one else seems to know. Yondu is not forthcoming with the reason, and Kraglin has been holed up for days in med bay with Yondu giving strict orders to Tullk and Doc to not let Peter visit.

“You have ta ask the Cap’n ‘bout that one, laddie,” Tullk answers without looking up from his calculations.

“I did, but he just barked at me to ‘stop wastin’ time thinkin’ ‘bout that stars-damned fucker with less sense than a blind orloni,’” Peter imitates Yondu, “but it doesn’t make any sense. They were… friends, I thought.”

Tullk considers how much to tell the boy, because Yondu had made it crystal clear that that is exactly what Quill still is: a boy. “Some things… well, some things a man can’t overlook. Obfonteri? He crossed a line.”

“What’d he do?” Peter insists. When Tullk refuses to elucidate further, he informs him, “If no one is going to tell me, I’ll just ask Kraglin myself. You can’t stop me. You’ve got to sleep _eventually_.”

“Do that, and Obfonteri’s dead… Though truth told, I got no idea why he’s still alive,” Tullk muses, dropping his voice low, “Cap’n’s tryin’ ta keep it quiet from the rest o’ the crew, but any one of the rest of us did what he did, Cap’n wouldn’t’a hesitated.”

“C’mon Tullk, I’m sure it couldn’t have been that bad.”

“Yer too young… too young fer this conversation and fer other _things_. Obfonteri didn’t respect that, and now, ‘ere we are,” Tullk fixes him with a meaningful stare, willing Quill to finally understand and shut up about the issue.

“What other thi–“

_Oh._

_Oh shit._

“Get it now, laddie? Not many know, so ya don’t have ta worry ‘bout gossip, but best reserve doin’ _that_ ‘til yer older.”

 

* * *

 

“Krag… Kraglin… and I… aren’t an item,” Peter declares between large gasps of air after running straight from the Bridge and barging into Yondu’s personal quarters five minutes after disabusing Tullk of the same notion.

“…What?” Yondu asks, looking up from his ledger at his desk.

“Kraglin and I… aren’t together, dating, fucking, whatever you call it,” Peter insists, “He’s just my friend, so you don’t have to be jealous.”

Yondu scowls. “I ain’t jealous, Quill. And who told ya ‘bout all that anyway?”

He stalks over to Peter, pulling him into the room and sliding the door shut for a more private conversation. The list of people who know the real reason behind Kraglin’s critical state are few. Considering Kraglin is still in a medically-induced coma, that left Tullk and Doc. One of them is their only medic while the other is Quill’s trusted replacement babysitter. He can’t very well brig either of them for an extended period of time, which left more creative punishments. He loves creative punishments.

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that none of it is true so you don’t have to be angry at Kraglin anymore,” Peter reasons.

Yondu knows what this is. Quill is still hopelessly infatuated with Obfonteri, and he will say anything in order to get his lover off the hook and lift Yondu’s embargo on their continued companionship. Sneaky, but he is not falling for it. Yondu wishes he could just beat it out of the boy and be done with it, but unfortunately, Quill is a persistent little shit. He won’t stop until Yondu makes him understand. With words.

_Fuck._

“I know ya think you… love him, but that ain’t love, son. He was just nice to ya so he could git somethin’ out of it. ‘S exploitation is what it was, and he paid for it.” _But not enough,_ if the sick look on Quill’s face is any indication.

“Nice to me?” Peter repeats. “He’s a stars-damned slave-driver and a huge asshole… but he’s my friend, sort of, and he’s your friend, too.”

If Yondu now doubts that there was any inappropriate intimacy between Peter and Kraglin, he doesn’t show it.

“Not anymore.”

 

* * *

 

Kraglin recovers, returning to his old post soon after. However, the atmosphere on the Bridge is tense, reflecting the strained relationship between Captain and First Mate. Although they don’t fully understand the cause, the crew can all feel it, that frosty electricity in the air between the two. Whereas before, their comradery was marked with a certain casual professionalism and trust, they now barely acknowledge each other, choosing to stand as far apart as allowed by the nature of their respective jobs. Their darkened moods cause both to snap at the crew for the smallest of mistakes and annoyances with the threat of a whistle or brigging more prevalent than ever.

Really, if Peter didn’t know better, he’d say they missed each other. The crew sure missed them being on speaking terms.

For his part, Peter is miserable. It’s all his fault, and neither man will let him repair their bond. Yondu refuses to listen to him, and Kraglin refuses to spend five seconds in his presence without at least three witnesses to all their interactions.

Quill knows they need him. With their taciturn natures and inability to apologize or acknowledge sentiment of any sort, those two are never going to reconcile if left to their own devices. Lucky for them, Peter has a plan, or at least the basic structure of one, but he can’t do it alone.

There is only one way this is going to work.

“I need your help, Tullk,” Peter approaches the other man while he is cleaning and recalibrating his blasters. Ravagers are grimy and disgusting in all facets of life, save one: weapon maintenance. In their line of work, a malfunctioning blaster or rusty knife prone to breaking can be the difference between getting a cut of the profits or getting cut down.

“Fer what?” Tullk asks, still lovingly oiling the blaster’s exterior to a satisfying shine.

“I want Yondu and Kraglin to be friends again.”

Tullk stops to stare at his charge. _The boy really is too soft. More trouble’n he’s worth._

Returning to his work, he states, “It’ll fix itself or it won’t. Either way, I don’t think you should stick yer nose in it. No good will come o’ it.”

“If I don’t fix it, Kraglin’s dead,” Peter insists, turning wide glassy eyes on his new babysitter, who is disappointingly still not paying adequate attention to him and this dire situation.

“I think yer bein’ a wee bit dramatic,” he says, skeptically.

“No! I’m being the appropriate amount of dramatic… I’m not stupid,” at Tullk’s raised eyebrow, Peter amends, “Okay, I’m not that stupid. I know that men who get on Yondu’s bad side end up assigned to insanely-dangerous missions. If I don’t do something, Kraglin’s going to die, and it will be all my fault!”

The kid has a point. Tullk’s poker face falters fractionally. Save the few days he thought the man was a child molester, Tullk has always liked Kraglin. They’ve shared a good number of drinks together over the years, and the man is a reliable source of backup in a fight, which is one of the hallmarks of a good Ravager. Peter can see he’s marginally wearing down Tullk’s resolve. He latches on to that glimmer of momentary weakness, taking it as an opportunity to air a little of his own feelings on the matter.

Peter looks down at his empty clenching hands, ashamed of the consequences of his failures, of what he put Kraglin and Yondu through in his hubris and selfishness, “I know I fucked up. I keep trying to fix it, but I just keep making it worse. I have a plan, but this isn’t a solo job. Those idiots won’t figure it out on their own. They need me… and I… I need an adult,” Peter fixes Tullk with a desperate gaze, “I guess what I am trying to say is, in the words of the great Terran warrior, Princess Leia: This is our most desperate hour. Help me, Tullk. You’re my only hope.”

Tullk sighs. “I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this, but alright, laddie, what do ya have in mind?”

 

* * *

 

“Cap’n wants ya ta report to Deck 6C Corridor 8 Room 16FZ,” Tullk informs Kraglin.

“I didn’t git no message on my comm,” Kraglin says, tapping the device on his wrist to check its functionality. It’s working perfectly. Yondu must have resorted to playing a complicated game of telephone, not even bothering to summon Kraglin directly anymore.

“You know Cap’n. Prob’ly in one of his moods,” Tullk shrugs, “Best be off with ya.”

As he makes his way towards the requested room in a little used part of the Eclector, Kraglin contemplates whether he’s walking into a trap. Perhaps Yondu has tired of looking at Kraglin’s ugly mug and has finally decided to carry out his delayed execution. He stands at the door, hand hovering over the biolock panel. He’s got three minutes to live, five tops.

Lost in thought, he doesn’t register Peter’s presence until it’s too late.

_Spfffft!_

Kraglin reflexively covers his face against the invading cloud of cologne.

“Fuckin’ damn it, Quill! Leave me the fuck alone! Haven’t ya done enough?” He shouts. It apparently isn’t sufficient that Peter will be his cause of death. No. Now, he has to spend his last five-ish minutes of life steeped in that stench? “What are ya even doin’ here?”

“Just getting you ready for your big date with Yondu,” Peter smiles obliviously.

“Cap’n sees you here, and I’m dead,” Kraglin says flatly. Well, he’s dead either way, but Yondu will make it slow if he thinks Kraglin did anything _untoward_ with the boy.

“I’m only trying to help!” Peter has the nerve to look exasperated.

“Tryin’ ta help me into an early grave,” Kraglin mutters, pushing the boy aside to disengage the biolock. He peers into the darkness, eyes adjusting to the low-light conditions. All he sees is an empty room, with a curtain draped along the back. That’s odd.

Peter shoves Kraglin into the dark, deftly removing his wrist comm with practiced ease, and quickly shuts the door behind him.

Springing to his feet, Kraglin curses and fumbles for the biolock to open the closet and pummel Quill. He’s dead already; he might as well die happy. Pressing his palm against the side panel, he finds it doesn’t light up at all, not even red to indicate denial. That little shit has cut the power to the inside padlock. Quill’s new plan is obviously to starve him to death until nothing but a shriveled mummy remains in a forgotten corner of the Eclector. Kraglin pounds against the door, cursing Yondu’s sentimentality, Quill’s vendetta, and finally, his own gullibility.

 

* * *

 

Forty-five minutes later, and Kraglin sits resigned on the floor of the forgotten storage room. He needs to conserve his strength. It might be hours, days even, before he hears the footsteps of someone coming down this hallway. He needs to be ready to make as much noise as possible to alert them to his position and let him out. He’ll make the brat pay, but for now, he needs to focus on survival.

The door slides open in a flash of bright light, but before Kraglin can react, a familiar blue form nearly falls on top of him, and the door closes again.

Springing off his soft landing, Yondu is at the door, cussing and beating away at the stubborn metal when he finds it locked.

 

* * *

 

“Where are they, laddie?” Tullk asks when he meets up with Quill outside Deck 6C Corridor 8 Room 16FZ. The boy is grasping Yondu’s yaka arrow in hand, having nicked it when he pushed Yondu inside. Tullk notes the inactivated weapon, wondering if Yondu’s feelings for the boy ran so deep, he wouldn’t dare so much as risk singeing Quill’s hands in recalling it.

Peter’s eyes dart toward the closed door, where Tullk hears faint muffled outrage. He stares in disbelief.

The boy looks uncomfortable as he raises his arm to scratch the back of his head. “Yeah, about that... Tullk, I’m going to level with you. That whole plan where we get them in the same open location, and they talk it out like adults of their own accord, it wasn’t happening. No way they would have done that. So, I had to improvise.”

“Improvise?” Tullk repeats.

“I sort of locked them in a storage room for the night shift.”

Tullk stares at Peter for a long moment, mouth open, then: “We got’a let ‘em out.” He moves towards the door panel to disengage the lock.

“No!” Peter grabs on to Tullk’s arm, heaving backward, to still him. “No, Tullk. This is our one shot! We’ll never be able to trick them into the same room again. Just… look, they aren’t expected back on the Bridge for hours. Now, they’ll be forced to talk to each other, and it’ll all work out.”

Peter gives him his best puppy face, “Pleeeeease.”

Tullk feels uneasy, but he acquiesces, “Okay, but just stop lookin’ at me like that. It’s creepin’ me out.”

If the kid doesn’t stop making eyes at him, he’ll really be in trouble. Tullk rubs his face in resigned exasperation and groans, “This’s what Obfonteri was goin’ on about…”

 

* * *

 

**Hour 0**

“Quill, Unlock this door right now or there’ll be hell t’ pay!” Yondu shouts, slamming his fist against the stubbornly-immobile door. If only glowers could melt metal…

Kraglin stands behind him in the center of the room. He rakes his hand through his Mohawk in exasperation. It’s a miracle the hair has not been rubbed away by the repetitive motion, considering Quill’s antics. “This is what I’ve been sayin’, Cap’n. That li’l psycho’s got it out fer me. He knows he can’t beat me fair an’ square in a fight, so he’s been tamperin’ with my food and tryin’ to git others to do his dirty work. First Horuz, then Retch... They couldn’t finish the job, so now he has you ready ta do me in, trappin’ us here ‘til you finish the job; that li’l coward.”

“Better watch what yer implyin’,” Yondu snaps, pivoting around to face Kraglin. There had to be a rational explanation, but finding none, Yondu doubles down on defending Quill. “The boy ain’t no coward. He just… had a problem, and he figured a way to take care o’ it given his current skill set.”

“His problem bein’ my existence. You almost sound proud of the li’l monster. He’s a menace,” Kraglin rages, not backing down. How can Captain not see he’s nurturing a viper in the Eclector’s nest?

“He’s pre-cocious, is all.”

“He lacks discipline.”

“That was yer job.”

“He ain’t my kid!” Kraglin explodes. When he became a Ravager, when he agreed to be a Yondu’s first mate, he signed up for larceny, murder, and an early death from cirrhosis or misadventure. Not pseudo-fatherhood. Coparenting was never part of the deal.

Yondu narrows his eyes then shoves Kraglin, who catches his fall against the tapestry draped along the back, pulling it down to reveal a hidden cot behind it. Outfitted with a clean sheet and flower petals strewn across the top, it is the closest replica of Quill’s memory of Terran television romance the boy could manage on short notice with limited supplies from the Eclector.

Yondu and Kraglin both stare at the display in disbelief.

“Are… are those the funerary flowers we keep in stasis fer officers?” Kraglin whispers.

The sight of the cot, clean and laid out for a proper Ravager funeral (or at least as close to one that any of the Eclector’s crew could ever hope for), weighs heavy on both men. The implication is obvious: Two men enter; one man exits through the door while the other through engine exhaust.

Kraglin asks, “Still think he ain’t out ta git me?”

Yondu remains silent for a long moment, then–

“Looks like there’s booze,” he indicates the bottle of moonshine in a bucket of ice next to the cot.

“No way I’m drinkin’ that. Prob’ly poisoned, like m’ sweet ration bars,” Kraglin says warily.

Yondu simply picks up the bottle, uncorks it, then takes a long pull before offering it to Kraglin.

“Don’t taste poisoned t’ me.”

 

**Hour 2**

“Wha’ happened to us?” Kraglin slurs, shaking then staring down the neck of the empty bottle to check for more moonshine. It is tragically empty, the selfish bastard next to him having finished the last of it. They lounge on the floor of the storage room, backs against the wall, Yondu with his legs kicked out and Kraglin with one arm draped on raised knee.

“Whaddya mean?” Said selfish bastard asks.

“We use ta do shit together. Pull jobs. Gut us some sonuvabitch what crossed us.”

“Got busy. Eclector don’t lead herself,” Yondu answers simply.

Kraglin rolls his eyes. That’s not what he means. “You use ta trust me, Cap’n,” he insists, “Now I can’t even say space is dark an’ stars are bright without ya doubtin’ me.”

When Yondu doesn’t respond, Kraglin continues, “It’s me, Cap’n. You know me. How could ya think I’d fuck Pete?”

Yondu doesn’t say he’s sorry, because he isn’t. He’ll never apologize for protecting Quill (or apologize in general), but perhaps he had been a bit hasty in condemning the other man. Kraglin didn’t deserve it. He needs to make it up to him…to make things right between them. He heaves himself up to his feet. Staggering a little with tipsiness, he steadies himself with a hand against the wall and turns to face the other man.

“All right. You can have five free shots, and we’ll call it square,” Yondu offers, dropping his arms in preparation for Kraglin’s blows.

_Does he really think…?_ Looking up at the man, Kraglin states, “That don’t make us even.”

“C’mon, you can hit me anywhere ya want, and I won’t do nothin’. Won’t even brig ya fer it after,” Yondu insists.

Kraglin’s eyes narrow in frustration. “Are ya even goin’ ta punish the li’l shit fer almost killin’ me?”

“…No restrictions. Anywhere ya want. Can even stab me a li’l,” Yondu negotiates.

_Are we even havin’ the same conversation right now_ , Kraglin thinks with irritation. He looks away. “I ain’t goin’ ta do that.”

Yondu taps his boot against Kraglin’s hip, and when that doesn’t get a rise out of the other man, he softly bats him across the head.

“Quit it,” Kraglin says.

_Smack._

“I mean it,” Kraglin warns.

_Thwack._

Kraglin slides up the wall to his feet and decks his captain.

“One,” Yondu says, grinning triumphantly.

“That don’t count. You was hittin’ me,” Kraglin protests.

“One,” Yondu confirms, lightly flicking him on his nose.

“Stop that.”

Yondu flicks his ear next, causing Kraglin to flinch away from the annoying contact. Yondu tilts up close to his face, smile peeking out at the edge of his mouth while Kraglin leans back, peering down at him in surprise at his proximity. _What would it feel like if_ – Kraglin thinks, just before Yondu blows a sour breath into his face, and swipes one foot out to hook Kraglin’s ankle, tripping him to the floor.

“Wha’sa matter, boy? Fallin’ fer me already?” Yondu chuckles, looming over the other man.

That’s it. Kraglin roars in irritation tinged with frustrated desire, throwing himself headlong against that smirking blue asshole, knocking him down.

He’s two punches in of Yondu not-resisting any of his strikes before he realizes this is exactly what Yondu wants. By the third punch, Kraglin doesn’t care because this is what he wants as well. Yondu blocks his fifth punch, having met his predetermined quota for forgiveness. They wrestle for dominance, hardscrabble grappling across the floor, with Yondu trying to hold Kraglin down and Kraglin trying to pluck out Yondu’s pretty red eyes from his skull.

Finally, Yondu has his first mate pinned, arm across throat and body pressed close. “We’re square,” he declares victoriously, bruised face close enough to warm Kraglin’s mouth with his breath.

From the furious look in his eyes, Kraglin vehemently disagrees.

Kraglin just wants to wipe that self-satisfied grin off Cap’n’s face, to surprise him and make him as helpless and flustered as he feels in this moment. That’s what he would tell himself later, but really, a small, not-insignificant part of him also wonders if the breath ghosting over him tastes as nasty as it smells.

It does.

Yondu freezes as he feels Kraglin’s chapped lips brush against his own, then strain forward to deepen the kiss from below. Surprise turns to welcome need as he loosens his sparring grip on Kraglin, slipping his arm from his neck to cradle his back as the other man rises to a seated position. Yondu remains on his lap, rocking against the other man’s erection through leather as Kraglin rips Yondu’s coat off of him and Yondu roughly unbuckles Kraglin’s jumpsuit to smooth his hands across hairy skin.

Kraglin is scratchy scruff and bony angles and everything Yondu has ever wanted.

Plus, he’s got a big dick.

 

**Hour 2.5**

“So… that jus’ happened,” Kraglin notes, a bit shell-shocked as they lay amongst their discarded leathers.

“Yeah,” Yondu says, equally so.

“Hm.”

“…This don’t mean nothin’.”

“Uh huh.”

“We jus’ got carried away is all.”

“Right.”

“Don’t expect special treatment.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” Kraglin says. He’s silent, then: “Want’a go again?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Yondu responds, rolling back on top of Kraglin.

 

**Hour 3.5**

Afterwards, they decide the macabre cot may be a marginally more-comfortable place to sleep than the hard floor. They brush off the flowers and tuck in under the sheet together, naked. It’s a tight squeeze, and to Kraglin’s dismay, Yondu is not used to sharing. He sprawls out, taking three-quarters of the available space.

“Hey, I’ve been meanin’ to ask ya somethin’…” Yondu begins. Kraglin ponders the possibilities: Will they make this a regular thing? How long has he known, and why did it take them so damn long to act on their mutual attraction?

“Why do ya smell like a deerling’s ass?” Yondu inquires, reclining on the shared cot, relegating Kraglin to an ever-thinner sliver of space.

Kraglin’s face drops. _Of course_.

“Quill sprayed me before I got ‘ere. Again. Claims it’ll improve my scent,” Kraglin answers, rolling his eyes at the boy’s stupidity.

“Don’t make no sense. Ya make yer own musky smell. Is better, too,” Yondu remarks, perplexed. He nuzzles into Kraglin’s neck, trying to detect his spicy tang underneath the stink of cologne. Quill says and does the most peculiar things. Sometimes, Yondu thinks his boy ain’t right in the head.

“I know, right? I tried to tell ‘im, but his nose is all wrong,” Kraglin agrees. Finally! An open sensible conversation regarding the boy’s obvious deficiencies.

Yondu snorts into the other man’s neck, “No accountin’ fer taste.”

Kraglin has his own theories regarding the boy’s rather dubious habits. “Ya know, I think he showers so often t’ strip his own scent off his skin. Thinks it makes it easier ta kill me if I can’t smell ‘im comin’, but that flowery shit he uses… It fuckin’ stinks.”

“Careful, that’s my boy yer talkin’ ‘bout,” Yondu says stonily, “He ain’t no cold-blooded murderer. He ain’t like that.” At least not yet, despite Yondu’s best intentions. He knows exactly what to do, too… how to grind down that soft boy, malleable like clay, and reform him into one tough sonuvabitch in his own image. He knows he’s capable of it. He even wishes he would do it, but every time he thinks to squash some of Quill’s softer, more whimsical urges, something always stays his hand. Perhaps he can’t bear to dim that light in the boy’s eyes, or maybe deep-down, Yondu simply doesn’t have the stomach for it.

Kraglin lets out an exasperated breath. “Then explain how we’re both lyin’ on m’ intended death slab courtesy o’ Quill.”

Yondu can’t, but he’s not about to admit defeat. He rubs the line of his eyes: “Jus’ go the fuck to sleep.”

Agree to disagree, it is then.

Kraglin tries to shift into a more comfortable position within his narrow allotment of space, seeking to press against his captain to reclaim a precious few additional inches, but Yondu is a muscular blue wall of selfishness. Instead, he drapes half his body over Yondu’s own, encroaching on his personal space. Yondu considers pushing him off and over the edge, but thinks better of it, rolling onto his side and magnanimously allowing Kraglin to spoon him from behind before drifting off into semi-restful sleep.

 

**Hour 8**

Peter approaches the closed door with a touch of apprehension.

“Have you guys hashed it out yet?” He calls out.

No answer.

“Guys?” He tries again. At the continued silence, Peter begins to worry. Perhaps he was wrong. Maybe when he opens this door, he’ll see dark blue splashed across the floor and walls, throats slit, gaping and glistening, and above that, milky film growing over cold dead accusing eyes. Would that make him a murderer? He wonders with trepidation. He cautiously places his hand on the door panel to disengage the biolock.

He is immensely relieved and moderately grossed out to find them curled up on the cot, sleeping and (from the unclothed state of their bodies peeking out over the sheet and their leathers strewn around the room) most-likely naked. Either there was a cold snap localized to this storage room, and both men needed to conserve body heat to stave off hypothermia… or one of Quill’s romantic ploys actually worked.

“Finally!” Quill says, broadly grinning at the tableau before him. He’s a genius!

Yondu wakes first, fixing the boy with a sharp glare. Kraglin stirs soon after, woken by Yondu’s abrupt change of position. He yawns, rubs the sleep from his eyes, and raises his arm to scratch the pit.

It’s Peter’s time to shine, his time to claim credit for his brilliant matchmaking skills.

“Up-top!” He exclaims, proudly holding his hand up, palm out for that elusive high five of acknowledgement.

Yondu leaps off the cot, simultaneously wrapping the lone sheet around his waist and leaving Kraglin naked and curling into himself to cover his man bits from Pete’s view. Before Peter can react or defend himself, Yondu throws one arm around his neck, twisting him into a headlock. Scowling in such a way to show off all his glinting predatory teeth, he leans in close to Peter’s ear.

“You an’ me, son, we havin’ ourselves a talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to read more kid!Peter matchmaking his sorta-dad and part-time babysitter, might I recommend Write_Like_An_American's wonderful fic "In the Closet"? If you haven't already, check it out.


	7. A Matchless Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yondu survives GotG2, but he wishes he were dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was strangely the first chapter I wrote for this fic, mostly because I had just come off writing my last fic which had more Guardians interactions, and I felt I had a good handle on them.

“Ah, Psycho Syd’s Sex Emporium! This brings back memories,” Peter exclaims as he throws open the doors and walks into the rather large establishment. “The Ravagers used to hit this place up for supply runs every time we stopped on Mouix. Has the widest assortment of condoms in the Luna Locus Galaxy, and a little _extra_ something for everyone.”

The Guardians file in after him, but Gamora pauses at the threshold, staring at the shiny black latex of the A’askavariian gimp suit hanging from the ceiling. The multitudinous tentacle sleeves lay limp over leather straps holding the appendages out in what she can only assume are alluring positions. On the wall adjacent to it are an assortment of dildos in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors, including an intimidatingly large purple corkscrew-shaped one.

Noticing she has fallen behind, Peter circles back to look in the direction of her gaze. He is instantly amused.

“Don’t tell me you’re a prude, Gamora. People with spiral vaginas deserve _physical_ love too. Sex is only natural.” Peter is having way too much fun with Gamora’s apprehension. “Really, you shouldn’t knock it ‘til you try it. Speaking of new experiences, what do you say we–”

“No,” Gamora says, but she allows Peter to lead her toward the wall of dildos. Maybe she can beat him about the head with some of the merchandise. The bladed one looks promising.

Rocket figures he should make use of this time to teach a teen Groot about the vast variety of intergalactic anatomies. He heads over to the sex doll section with the surly tree.

“See this right here, Groot? This is a female Pluvian. Hard, mirrored flesh with no give. Prob’ly chafes like a sonavabitch. Could shred any fleshy mortal,” Rocket tells him, indicating a crystalline model.

“I am Groot?”

“Not too sure what it would do against your bark, but I wouldn’t risk it,” Rocket answers. He turns to another model, “Now this one is a male Floral Colossus, just like you. See, I told you your body is normal. Spittin’ image of you.”

“I am Groot,” Groot says huffily.

“It’s not racist if it’s true!”

Seeing the duo pause in front of the wooden sex doll, the salesperson approaches them and asks, “Can I help you gentlemen with anything? This is a floor model, but we have one still in its packaging in the back if you’re interested.”

“We’re just browsing,” Rocket replies, latching onto Groot’s arm to lead him away from the pushy salesperson.

“We also have various toys catered to discerning customers such as yourselves… perhaps a wooden dildo or furry massager?”

“Naw, I like to make my own stuff,” Rocket says.

Meanwhile, Drax and Mantis peruse the assortment of vibrators.

“Ooooo, Pretty!” Mantis prods a glittery pink vibrator. It starts buzzing and emitting a rainbow of colors. “It lights up! Can I have one?”

“Perhaps it would not be such a bad idea. Considering how hideous you are, it will be hard for you to find a significant other with which to copulate,” Drax comments, eyeing the lively contraption.

“Oh…” Mantis’s antennae wilt. That’s right, no one would be attracted to a person so ugly as herself. The best she can hope for is a plastic companion.

Noting her change in demeanor, Drax takes pity on the unsightly little bug. “I would not worry too much about it. A real partner’s genitalia typically do not boast so many features and functionalities. Plus this one is sparkly.”

It’s not Mantis’s fault she’s so unattractive. Not everyone can be genetically gifted with a flawless physical appearance. Plus, Mantis is a nice person. Maybe one day, she’ll find someone who can look past her tragically-unappealing looks, someone with a heart of gold… Drax takes in Mantis’s large creepy eyes, skinny undernourished body, and sickeningly unblemished skin… Okay, maybe someone blind. Drax prides himself on not being shallow, but a man can only overlook so much.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you’re getting that thing,” Gamora says, referring to the comically-large corkscrew dildo in Peter’s possession.

“I’m going to send it to Dey, as a ‘thank you’ for his help back on Xandar last year,” Peter answers. Really, Gamora should stop questioning his boundless generosity.

“That feels more like a ‘fuck you.’”

“You just don’t understand male gift-giving traditions,” Peter says, ignoring her eye roll. “Ooooo, this aisle up ahead is a good one.”

Chuckling at Gamora’s unease, Peter turns a corner to venture down yet another aisle of increasingly-large dildos with flared bases. _They are the best for anal insertion_ , Peter insists. Gamora doesn’t want to know how he knows that.

Peter is about to launch into a story about some Badoon girl he bedded back in his heyday, when suddenly, he stops and stares at a familiar blue figure perusing the aisle in front of him. He tries to back up before he’s seen, but it’s too late as the other man fixes red eyes on him then slips down to the suddenly-less-funny novelty dildo under his arm. They widen in surprise, and the silence between them stretches long past what both are comfortable with.

Coming from the other end of the aisle, Kraglin is looking down, studying the two butt plug vibrators in his hands. “Cap’n, the largest size they are legally allowed to sell us based on your body size is the XXX jumbo, an’ it comes in black or red. You’ll have ta sign a waiver.” He looks up.

“Oh hey, Pete,” Kraglin acknowledges the new addition to their group. Turning back to Yondu, he holds up both products in front of him, weighing the choices one in each hand as he casually asks, “So, black or red?”

Yondu looks incredulously at Kraglin. He indicates Quill’s presence with the tilt of his head just in case Kraglin somehow missed the fact that _his son_ is standing right there with what looks like a dildo for his entire gastrointestinal tract.

“Kraglin…” he says, eyes darting between his first mate and Quill. No way Kraglin thinks he’s invisible. Quill can _see_ him right now… with _those_ , and the boy is staring at them like he very much wants to disappear.

“Yer right; what was I thinkin’? Red’s yer favorite color an’ would match yer pretty eyes better.” Kraglin places the black back on the shelf in the wrong place. Let the stock boy deal with it later.

The other Guardians have since congregated in their aisle, amused by the awkward scene playing out before them. Rocket poorly stifles a laugh, wishing Psycho Syd’s sold popcorn instead of candy G-strings. Peter just knows he’s going to hear about this for a long time to come.

The bright red butt plug is enormous and obviously meant for use on Yondu, based on their conversation. How would he even fit–

Peter decides then and there that he never wants to find out.

Yondu continues to stare at Kraglin meaningfully, dumbfounded that his partner somehow lost the ability to read a room. Just because they are now somewhat open about their relationship and everyone who would have cared is dead, doesn’t mean he can’t exercise a little discretion. Kraglin can’t possibly be this dense.

“What? Pete already knows about us. He set us up. By the way, kid, good job on that. You completely fucked up everything, and I almost died, but hey, twenty years later and the sex ain’t never been better. Yer daddy makes the cutest mewlin’ sounds,” Kraglin says. Life is about priorities, after all, and great sex and embarrassing Peter are near the top of Kraglin’s list.

The noise emitting from Peter’s throat sounds strangled, while Yondu coughs, turns purple, and purses his lips in pre-whistle. Kraglin reconsiders his choice of words.

“Manliest mewlin’ sounds,” he corrects.

It does nothing to quell the rage growing within Yondu. Kraglin might be sleeping strapped to the ship’s bow – on the _outside_. But that’s six-hours-from-now Kraglin’s problem. Current Kraglin is busy short-circuiting Pete’s brain and testing just how deep red his face can get. The answer: Positively crimson.

“Anyways, you did good. Up-top!” Kraglin holds his hand up and in front of him, palm facing towards Pete. Peter stares dumbly at the outstretched hand. He is not going to applaud _that_.

Groot sidesteps Pete and high-fives Kraglin.

“Don’t encourage him!” Peter shouts at the teen.

Groot shrugs. “I am Groot.”

“Well, he’s got a point. Twenty years in Blue’s company is mighty impressive. I could barely last twenty minutes,” Rocket manages through raucous laughter.

“Yes, you did a remarkable job, Quill. They are each so horrible they should only inflict their affections on each other,” Drax congratulates Peter with a hearty pat on the back.

 

* * *

 

Once back on the Milano, Peter attempts to repress the memory of his most-recent visit to Psycho Syd’s. Psycho Syd’s is a family joint, a place of fond memories. It’s where Yondu bought him his first box of condoms and a pocket pussy. He doesn’t want it sullied by the latest revelation of his father’s sexual practices.

He’s almost successful.

“I do not understand your discomfort, Quill. Perhaps it is because you have not had much experience in long-term relationships, but many couples are prone to experimentation after a number of years together. Why, Hovat and I used to…” Drax says, conspiratorially.

“Don’t want to hear it. Don’t need to know,” Peter tries desperately to talk over Drax, but it’s already too late.

Drax: “… the trick is to relax your–”

Looking pained, Peter covers his ears. “LALALALA!”

Gamora smiles: “Why Peter, sex is only natural. I didn’t know you were such a prude.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus LJ GotG Kinkmeme Prompt: That awkward moment when you run into your mentor in a sex toy shop.
> 
> I know that Yondu would probably tease Peter mercilessly for that corkscrew dildo, but I also wanted to make him supremely uncomfortable as well, for comedic effect. It’s not every day you run into your son holding what is either a very impressive or very embarrassing sex toy. He’s probably looking at that and thinking, “Okay, that one’s on me.” Basically, that Quill takes after him WAY too much if he’s pushing his body’s limits to that extreme. Like father, like son.
> 
> Also, I answered this in the comments for last chapter, but for those of you wondering about Peter’s punishment in the immediate aftermath of Chapter 6: The Eclector practically sparkled for months. Yondu also grounded him from doing any jobs for a while. He was supervised by Tullk, who (for his part in Peter’s schemes) was tasked to clean alongside him and teach him how to cheat at the galaxy’s most complex card games Peter had no hope of ever mastering. It was a frustrating experience for all involved. Banning Peter from accompanying any missions finally allowed Yondu and Kraglin some time alone to reconnect on many two-man jobs, like back in the good old days but now with copious amounts of sex. 
> 
> Date nights are important after all.
> 
> Anyways, that’s a wrap, people! I want to thank everyone who Kudo-ed and commented on this fic. You guys are awesome! You keep me writing for this group of idiots. Until next time…


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